Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

He wasn’t allowed to miss Maggie for all those years. 

There was the baby to think of. Matty, he was a good baby, but he still had his fussy moments. And before, before she left, Maggie wasn’t exactly getting up when Matty got to wailing. The depression messed with her head too much, kept her staring at one of the dirty apartment walls, vacant of all the life and fire Jack had fallen ass over tea kettle for. In the end, it wasn’t that big of a change when Maggie left for good, but it wasn’t easy either. 

It was lonely. That was it. His life was lonely without her.

They weren’t anything alike. Jack hasn’t a fucking clue why they fell for each other as hard as they did, or why he never was able to find a better friend. They just… fit together. Like interlocked fingers. All of a sudden, she was gone, and Jack had to relearn how to keep an empty hand.  

Matty was the only thing in the world that saved him from that terrible loneliness, back when he was learning life after Maggie. His baby couldn’t so much as lift his head under his own power, but he--Christ, he was Jack’s little buddy. Just about the only time he left Jack’s arms was when Jack was in the ring, and he was in such a rush to have him back after that, more than once, Matty ended up christened with his daddy’s blood dripping down from Jack’s split forehead to his own. 

Jack was happy to do all the culling, back when he first narrowed down his world to be just his son. He can’t imagine why he was ever so goddamn foolish as to try and let in everything else. 

Beating Creel--Christ, he was stupid. Thought being a fuckin’ boxer who held up his end of the bargain in the ring was more important than being there for his baby. Some stupid match shouldn’t’ve ever been worth a minute with his son, and Jack went and traded a lifetime with him. 

Once upon a time, when Jack was younger and had lost a lot less, he would have given anything for just a few days more alone with Maggie. Now, he’s got it. All the time he wants and more. They’re stuck together in this damn stupid basement for the foreseeable future, and no one else to distract them from it. 

All he can think about is how much he’d rather have this time with Matty. 

She’s darning socks, Maggie. She’s settled herself in a chair next to the cot that they confined Jack’s sorry ass to while he’s healing, and she hasn’t said a word to him either way. The socks she’s working on are tiny, with little red race cars printed on their sole. They’re kiddie socks. They’re for a baby. 

They never could afford the kinds of socks with little race cars on them for Matty.

“Why were you able to take care of the orphanage’s babies but not Matty?”

She stops mid-stitch. 

He doesn’t mean to say it--God as his witness, he doesn’t mean to say it. But it’s there, out in the air between them, and he can’t take it back no matter how much he wishes. 

“I suppose it’s a fair question,” she says, slowly pulling the thread through the sole, then settling the whole of it in her lap. “But I think you already know the answer.”

“Christ--I do.” Jack mops a hand down his face. “You were sick. I know that, Maggie.”

“But you still can’t forgive me,” says Maggie, rubbing her hands along her legs. “Which is why I never deigned to ask for it.” Her lips pinch. “For what it’s worth, I am sorry for abandoning Matthew. Not for my oath. But for leaving him… I am sorry for that.”

“It ain’t about forgiveness.” He shakes his head. He wishes he could shake the stupid out of him entirely. “Forget I said anything.”

“I don’t see any point in that.” She says it without an ounce of feeling to it. “It was said, and you meant it. There isn’t much to gain from pretending it never happened.”

“There’s something to gain from acknowledging it?”

“I didn’t say that.”

There’s too many mistakes between them. Jack knows that they’ll never be husband and wife again, and that neither of them would take the option if it were proffered. But he doesn’t know what happens if this ends. If--when, when they find Matty, if he even fucking wants them, Jack knows he’d give anything in this horrible, shitstain of a world to be his son’s daddy again. But he doesn’t know if Maggie has any plans on being his mom. And he doesn’t know if she’ll be around if they don’t find his boy. 

He doesn’t know if he’ll want her to stick around. 

There ain’t no one in the world other than the two of them that wants to see Jack and Maggie end up as friends, he knows that much. Christ, it’d be another scandal of theirs, and they were so good at causing plenty. 

He doesn’t know if the two of them want it either. 

Maggie’s left his life before, and he’s got no illusions about her ability to do it again. One day, he might wake up and find her number changed and the doors of Clinton Church shuttered to him. Sorry, you old nun-fucker, but are you really surprised?

He doesn’t know if he could bear to look at her if they don’t find Matty. And he would not blame her if she could never look at him.

“Did you look for him?”

That’s another thing he shouldn’t have said. 

Maggie purses her lips. She rolls the needle between her fingers, but she doesn’t make any move to pick up the darning. “I did.”

He doesn’t believe her. Huh. 

“Father told me. When you, uh--after the police took you away. At first, I, uh… I prayed. That whole night. All the next day. I got the children in the orphanage to take shifts on a vigil, and the sisters.” She looks away. “Father offered all masses for his safe return for months after. No one else could have any intentions heard. The lay director, he was up in arms.” Her voice quivers noticeably, but she steels her shoulders and pushes on. “They were nice services.”

There’s a lump in his throat and just enough of a cruel streak that he’ll open his sorry goddamn mouth again. “That ain’t looking.” 

“I--”

“Looking is, is calling that stupid sorry detective every goddamn chance you get and having to hear him--fuckin’, fuckin’ masticating a sandwich every other call. Having to beg through all the fucking chewing for your baby’s life. And, and, the useless attorneys, asking them to, to--”

He can barely choke the words out past the grief clogging up his throat. He waves a hand uselessly about himself, and it ain’t any good, because he’s still a sorry, broken old man once it completes its arc, and he still does not have his son. 

That’s what he could never reconcile with the Church, after Matty died, and maybe before it, too. All prayer, no action. He’d have every fuckin’ member of the faithful in some kind of official garb offering their prayers for the soul of his poor, lost boy, and they’d be awfully scarce when it came to doing any actual looking. 

It was the same thing with his own Daddy, back in the day. Lots of the others in the Church, they weren’t fucking stupid. Everyone knew what the head of the Murdock household was doing to the rest of it. There were a great many prayers offered for his father’s sobriety, for his healing, for his temper. None of the pious fuckers took his Daddy out back and threatened to break his kneecaps if he ever raised a hand to his wife or babies again, which Jack feels would have been a great deal more productive. 

Jack wonders if it makes them feel good about themselves, putting it all in the Lord’s hands so they can wash their own of the matter. It’s easy to offer up a few prayers for the poor fucking lost blind boy. But the second it turns into putting up a poster? Faithful are awfully thin on the ground.

He did a shit job of looking too. But he looked.

“I had all these plans for more.” Maggie swipes at her cheek with distinction, and they both pretend for a second like he didn’t make her cry. “Milk cartons, and, and flyers. I printed out all these flyers. Spent days and days pinning them to subway walls. Father, he helped. Some of the sisters, and the children. 

“I wanted to set up some kind of, of phone bank. Got the idea from a movie I saw, just… a long time ago. A little girl went missing, and everyone banded together and she--well, she got home in the end, in the film. Father agreed to ask parishioners to help. But, uh… It got around that he was my son. Biologically. And that I had him--when I was supposed to be taking my vows. I don’t know who told them, but many of the volunteers backed out after.” Her mouth pinches something terrible. “They were very apologetic, but they decided in the end that assisting me would implicitly condone my actions, and, and my motherhood of him, I suppose. Their conscience couldn’t permit them.” 

A silence hangs between them. 

“Real Christian of them,” says Jack, and he means it, too.

“You know it isn’t,” snaps Maggie, swiping another hand across her cheek. It comes away shiny, and Jack ignores that, too. “Don’t pretend that this was anything other than the sanctimonious actions of cowards hiding behind religion. This isn’t what the Church teaches. The Lord sat with sinners and liars and prostitutes.”

“Yeah? Which of those did they think you were?”

The look she sends him is flat enough to write on. “I’ll still hit you, Jack. I don’t care how injured you are.”

“You ask a room full of the least charitable people around for understanding and help, you lose the right to be surprised when they spit on you. I was standing right there next to you when we got married. I haven’t forgotten how they treated us.”

“Don’t--don’t misconstrue this. You read the same book I did. Jesus teaches to love and give charity without judgment. He condemned exactly what these people did. Don’t blame the faith simply because a few awful people lied about what Jesus said.”

Jack just pushes himself up on his elbow. “You want to talk about what Jesus would have done? Fine. He’s supposed to be all powerful and all good. And my baby’s still gone.”

“You know that’s not how it works.”

“I don’t care how some guy in a funny hat says it’s supposed to work. You tell me there’s an all powerful and all just God up there deciding everything, then I get to ask why He ever let a good baby like Matty get hurt.”

Maggie’s face twists, but she just looks back at her stitching and runs it between her fingers. “Father give you his talk on God’s plan being like grand tapestry?”

“No.”

“It’s a good one.”

He’ll never forgive her or Father if they make him listen how his boy’s pain was for the greater good. 

“I don’t care to hear it.”

“I know. So does Father. It will be waiting for you if you ever change your mind.”

It’d take the end of the goddamn world for Jack to sit in a pew and listen to a talk about how the suffering of the best kid on the face of God’s sorry world was part of some kind of infinitely good plan. And that means Elijah and all his goddamn trappings of white, or it means his baby coming home. His world ended when he realized what he did, and he opened his eyes into a special hell of his own keeping. The only way to claw his way out is to find his son and make it right. This horrible, awful world ends once he has his boy safe, and he won’t be sorry at all to see it go.

Matty doesn’t ever have to forgive him. What Jack did to him is unforgivable. He can spit on his old man’s face and stomp on him as he passes, and Jack will weep tears of joy. 

He just has to be alive. 

Jack just has to have not killed him. 

“I’ll let you know when the day comes,” he says.

…

The thing about the man in the mask is that there’s some part of Jack that wants desperately for him to stick around, and he hasn’t the foggiest fuckin’ idea as to why. 

This guy isn’t like Jack. He’s some kind of, of man of mystery or some shit. He lives a different life, and Jack’s never wanted to be a part of something spectacular. He’s only ever wanted to be a part of his son’s life, and Lord knows he fucked that one up. 

He hardly knows this guy. He shouldn’t care if he sticks around. 

It’s probably just how goddamn grateful he is that this fella exists, when he tries to turn the thought over in his mind and put it under inspection. Guys like him shouldn’t, and that’s not Jack getting uppity about law breaking. 

He’s too good to be real. It isn’t the way the world works. 

Fellas like him, well, Jack imagines they come at a premium. Christ fuckin’ knows that he and Matty would’ve never worried about the rent if Jack could fight half as good as this guy. This man, he’s, he’s smart as hell and fights like the devil, and he’s the kind of guy who can cause terrible trouble if he wants to. Common sense says he should only be using it for his own gain. 

People with power don’t use it for free to help poor fucking little boys who need their daddy. Hell, the ones who are paid to do it don’t even do it. He wishes to God this man were on the streets when Matty disappeared. 

And that’s probably just it. Gratitude and wonder. There isn’t reason for there to be anything more. 

But there is. He can’t quite put his finger on it, but there is. There’s just something about this guy that Jack likes. 

He hopes he stays. 

…

He doesn’t say a thing to Fogs, because the man must already suspect he’s in cahoots with Maggie, and he’ll beat him upside the head if he finds out he’s sleeping in a basement she keeps. Not to mention the temper tantrum that he’ll pitch when he finds out about the Russians. 

He calls Clark instead. Poor guy’s so good-hearted and earnest and floppy-haired that it makes for easy pickings. Christ, it almost makes him feel bad, sending him to Fogs like a lamb with a shiny white coat on the night the Lord’s angel is due. 

He picks up on the third ring. “Hello?”

There’s the sound of bags being beaten faintly in the background. “Watson?” 

“Mr. Murdock Coach goddamn sir,” says Clark, sounding breathless. “I, uh, I wasn’t on my phone in the gym, sir.”

Jack has to pinch his nose. “Son, you obviously are.”

There’s a distinguishable pause. Then, sounding hunted, Clark whispers, “Can you see me, sir?”

“Stop that,” sighs Jack. “And stop crouching down and trying to hide. You’re embarrassing yourself.”

There’s another pause. Now, Clark sounds distinctly afraid. “How are you doing this?”   

Sometimes, Jack misses praying being an option for his day-to-day. “I’m gonna give you a pass on this one.”

“Thank you, Coach sir goddamn.” There’s a beat. “Why aren’t you here? Fogs was lookin’.”

“Tell him I’m sick.”

“Are you sick?”

Clark ain’t gonna lie for him. This isn’t even a matter of won’t . It’s a matter of can’t. “Yes.” 

He adds a cough for good measure. 

It’s a mistake. It rattles straight through his bruised ribs and sends him hacking. 

“Holy fuck, are you dying?”

“Watson. Just tell him.”

“‘Course, Mr. Murdock Coach sir goddamn sir.” There’s another pause. “Why aren’t you telling him?”

“Ain’t important.”

“I saw this before,” Clark tells him, with the utmost earnestness. “My folks started doing this to each other before the end. ‘Clark, tell your father to pass the salt.’ ‘Clark, tell your mother I’d rather chew nails.’ And then Ma got with Dad’s brother, and it was all, sir, it was all a mess. I still don’t know to call him uncle or dad, or, or just his name. Please don’t do this to me again.”

Christ alive, what?

“Clark, son, maybe see someone about that professionally,” says Jack. “But tell Fogs.”

“So much can be fixed by opening a line of communication now,” Clark prattles on. “Love is a choice you make; it’s not something you feel. We can still fix this.”

The fuck does Clark think he and Fogs are?

“There’s nothing wrong with me and Fogs. I just need you to tell him.”

“Why?” complains Clark. “And why aren’t you calling from your own phone?”

Organized crime shattered it into itty bitty bits. Jack considers his options. 

“Because,” he elects to say, “it’s the devil’s machine.”

“You clicked on a link that a spam number sent you, didn’t you?”

“That was it,” says Jack. The hell is a spam number? They didn’t have this shit when he went in the clink. “Can’t get the damn thing to work.”

“Those texts are lies, Coach. There ain’t no women or Nigerian princes who want to talk to you. I’m sorry you had to learn this way, but I’ll help you fix it.”

He doesn’t know what those words mean. “That’s kind of you.”

“I’ll tell Fogs. But he’s”--Clark’s voice goes hunted again--“he’s being weird. He ever be weird with you?”

“Every day of my life,” says Jack, and he ends the call. 

… 

There isn’t much to be done, after that. 

The day passes, and night falls, and there isn’t much to be done for an old man hiding in the basement of a church. Maggie stops keeping him company once Sister Immaculata starts wandering around sniffing about propriety, and there isn’t anyone else lining at the door to take her place. A little after midday, he manages to lug himself off the cot, wash some of the dried blood from his skin, and stare at his sorry mug in the mirror. 

At least they didn’t break his nose. 

He’s been more messed up in a fight than he was by the Russians. All in all, the man in the mask showed up in plenty of time to save his hide, and he’ll be in fighting shape in no time at all. 

Hopefully he’ll make a better show of fighting than he did yesterday. Christ, it’s embarrassing still. Prime of his life, and he took out a room of men without even particularly trying. Now, he’s old and got shoved in a trunk by two schmucks in a shitty mob. 

He shadow boxes in the center of the room, ignoring the ache in his back and his ribs and his arms. He keeps at it until his breath shortens and lines of sweat start down his back, and then he pushes on. 

“You do have a hell of a right hook.”

They should put bells on masked men of the night. 

Jack straightens, turning to see the man in black standing in the corner of the room. Now, he knows for a fact that the only door creaks like the gates of Hell when it opens, and he hasn’t a clue as to how this guy made it in without any noise at all. But he doesn’t ask him. He feels like it’s exactly what his smug ass wants. 

“I’ve seen yours,” says Jack, reaching for a rag before he remembers that all fell to Maggie’s purge. “Mine ain’t one to write home about.”

“Battlin’ Jack Murdock?” says the masked man, a wry twist to his mouth. “That’s not what I’ve heard.”

Jack feels sick to his stomach when he hears the name he traded his son for. Of all the deals he’s made with devils, that’s the one he’ll never forgive himself for. “I don’t go by that anymore.”

If it phases him, it doesn’t show past his mask. “I’m sorry for leaving so abruptly yesterday.”

“Isn’t that the only way you Batman fellas leave?”

“I’m not Batman.”

“‘Course you’re not. Batman would never be caught in such a shitty suit.”

The man laughs. The sound escapes him, clearly, but Jack can only tell from how fast he clamps down on it again. It’s a damn shame too--he had a nice laugh. “I wanted to come back and tell you how this is going to go.”

“What, being on the run?”

“I wouldn’t go so far as to say you’re on the run. Just… a brisk walk.”

“I can’t go back to my apartment, can I?”

The masked man cringes. “Not yet.”

On the run, then. Jack gestures to the chair Maggie sat in. “Want a seat?”

“If you’re offering.”

Jack goes to sit on the cot while the masked man settles in. “Claire’s calling you Mike, right?”

Another visible cringe. “Please don’t call me that too.”

“You got something against being called Mike?”

“Let’s just say it wouldn't be my alias of choice. She’s coming by later to check on how you’re healing.”

Fuck. Jack can feel his cheeks heat with embarrassment, after the mess he made of himself the night before. “Don’t tell her I was exercising. She said she’d skin me if I didn’t rest, and I don’t put it past her to follow through.”

He snorts, then drags his index in a lazy ‘X’ over his heart. “Your secret’s safe.”

“So. How’s this going to go?”

“I’m going to make trouble.” The man smiles, and Jack can see the white of his teeth. “The Russian’s are already feeling the pressure. Soon, I’ll find the head of the snake.”

“And I’m guessing that’s the bit you cut.”

“The tails grow back too fast.” He shrugs. “If I do this right, the people after you are going to be too busy being in federal prison to go after you ever again. It will be handled fairly quickly.”

“Simple as that?”

“Define simple.”

“You don’t seem too worried about whether you’ll be able to manage.”

“The Russians are out of their league.” It’s stated as plainly as any fact. “I’ve swum with sharks with much sharper teeth than theirs. It may get a little touch and go at times, but I know how to win this game. You’ll go home safely, Jack. You have my word on that.”

The thing is, when he says it, Jack believes it. He believes that this man can do all he says and more.

He looks at him with no small amount of wonder. He’s been useless for so much of his life. The idea of a man that can take down nightmares seems like a fairytale. “I really didn’t think men like you existed.”

Behind his mask, Jack can’t tell much about what’s passing through his mind. But he’s quiet when Jack says it. “We probably shouldn’t.”

“You should,” he tells him. “You bring little boys home.”

The man in black is silent as stone. 

Eventually, he says, “You have my number?”

“Yes. Don’t expect I’ll need it, but it’s there.”

“Call me if anything happens. Even if you think it’s nothing, call me.”

“You don’t gotta worry about me.”

“It’s important to me.” The man in the mask’s voice goes sharp with strength as he says it, but a second later, he tampers it right down again. “I picked this fight. I don’t want you paying for it just because you helped me.”

“I would’ve picked it for myself,” Jack tells him, and it’s God’s truth. “I just would’ve been shit at it when I tried.”

It wins him a twitch at the corners of this guy’s jaws. He opens his mouth again, but before he says anything, the door groans like a herald of Satan. A second later, Maggie bangs her way in with a tray of food in her hand, and the look on her face suggests a demonic portend might treat this guy a little nicer. 

The guy moves to stand, but she just sniffs at him, clearly unimpressed. “You didn’t get better clothes since I last saw you.”

This guy, Christ Almighty, seems to think he shouldn’t have a thing to fear of Maggie Grace. “I’m between tailors right now.”

“You should take your last one out back and shoot them. You look ridiculous.”

The man in the mask laughs with his entire back. “That so?”

She stares down at him. “How do you see anything out of that mask?”

“You know, you’re the first person to ask that.”

“What was everyone else doing?”

“Running away, mostly.”

She rolls her eyes, then turns her merciless attention on him. “Eat, Jack.”

“I can eat when I choose to eat,” he complains. “I’m entertaining company.”

It doesn’t make a dent in Maggie. “You’re not hosting a dinner party. You have a felon who broke into the basement you’re hiding in.”

“If he were hosting a dinner party, there’d probably be more eating,” points out the man in the mask. 

Maggie flaps a hand at him. “Is there a point to you being here?”

“I guess not anymore. I’ll tell you when it’s safe to go home, Jack.” 

He stands, then, and makes to leave. A bit of Jack can’t help but wish he’d stay, and he still doesn’t quite know why. 

The man turns to Maggie. “Can he stay here for a bit longer?”

Her mouth flattens. “I don’t know. Some of the other sisters have gone to Father. He’ll buy us a little while, but I can’t say for certain how long.” 

He twitches. His head tilts with concentration, and all of a sudden, he’s back in motion towards the door. “I’ll be quick then. Have a good night.”

The door aches its way open again before he reaches it. Father Lantom stares at them from the doorway like the judgment of God. His eyes rest on the masked man first, then Maggie, then Jack, and then back on the masked man. 

The man in the mask coughs slightly. 

“Jack,” he says, stepping into the room. He closes the door behind him. “How are you feeling?”

Jack feels like he owes Father a great many thanks for what he’s done for him over the years, and this adds more than a little to the tab. 

“Much better.” He nods. “I’m sorry for the trouble.”

“The Church was always meant to be a haven,” says Father. “This is only what God intended.” 

Could’ve shocked him. “I’m grateful for it nevertheless.”

Father comes deeper into the basement. Coughing again, the masked man tries to step around him to the door. 

“Oh no,” says Father. “Stay.”

“No,” says the masked man. “No, I should--”

“How did you all meet?” says Father Lantom, grabbing the man in black by his shoulder and steering him back into the basement. 

His mouth flattens. “I don’t think it’s that important.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. I think the first time we meet someone can define a lot about a relationship.” Father glances about the room. “Would anyone here like to share the first time they met?”

“I met this idiot when he dragged in poor Jack while dressed like the village idiot,” says Maggie Grace, flatly, and she jabs a hand towards the man in black. “Father, I fail to see the point in this.”

Father Lantom sighs heavily. 

As he does, the man in black starts to squirm out of his grip. “I should be going.”

Father’s tone brokers no disagreement. “Stay.”

Fella seems to be bent towards disagreement nevertheless. His mouth twists something terrible, and he tries to scoot his way back towards the exit.

Jack tries to ease whatever terrible tension is brewing between Father and the masked man. “I’ll be out of your hair as soon as I’m able.”

“Really, Jack, think nothing of it. Helping your neighbor is one of God’s greatest teachings.” He hikes up his voice a tad. “Honesty is another, of course. And frankness.”

“Is it?” says the masked man, pained. “Fascinating. Best be on my way.”

Jack starts to wonder if Father’s heard news of this fella. “He’s a good man, Father. I don’t know what you’ve heard, but he saved a little boy. Some folks stole him to, to, to sell him. This man right here got him home safely.”

For a moment, Father’s face flickers with an odd, concentrated pain. He sits down heavy on the bed. “Did he?”

“I saw it.” Jack risks a glance at the masked man. “I don’t mean to--I’m not going around parading your business, I promise, but you’re a good man, and, well… If Father’s involved, he ought to know that, that you’re a good man, I suppose.”

The man doesn’t say anything in response. Doesn’t so much as twitch. 

“Bringing a little boy home safely is an amazing kindness,” says Father, with a slow gravity. “Did he have parents?”

The man might as well be a statue for how still he stands. “A father.”

“I imagine he’s very grateful to you. It’s a horrible pain, losing one’s child. I don’t think there is any pain that’s quite as strong.” The look Father sends him is barely noticeable, just out of the corner of his eye, but Jack locks eyes with him as it passes. “And I don’t think there’s any true remedy other than the child’s return.” 

Oh, Jack will cry. He’ll cry. “There isn’t.”

“I, uh…” The masked man sucks in a breath. “I should go. I need to go.”

Father doesn’t look very happy. “Very well. I hope you’ll return soon. These doors are always open to you.”

The man turns to the door. He doesn’t say anything. 

Father Lantom calls after him. “If you would stay for a prayer.”

He looks just as unhappy as Father at the request. “Fine.”

“Thank you.” Father stands, making his way towards Jack. He gestures the man closer, and his mouth goes flat again, but he complies. When he’s close enough, Father settles one hand on Jack’s shoulder, and one hand on the man’s. Maggie Grace swoops in closer at Father’s glance, but he doesn’t touch her, and she makes no move to join their circle. 

“Heavenly Father,” says Father, eyes on the ceiling, “we ask you in this time of uncertainty to guide us towards clarity and truth.”

The man starts to inch back towards the door as soon as the sentence has a period tacked to its end. Jack decides to take mercy on the poor guy. Religion ain’t for everyone. Hell, it ain’t much for Jack, but he’s hiding in a Catholic Church’s basement, and he figures a few prayers are less rent than they can ask. “Thank you, Fa--”

“Reveal to us the path to healing,” he continues, talking clean over him. “Inspire with us the grace to bare ourselves to Your sight and the sight of those closest to us, no matter how difficult it may be.”

Father’s practically gripping this guy by the shirt. 

“That’s a real nice prayer, Fat--”

“And give us the strength to uphold any sacred and binding oaths we may have taken to You, our Lord and God,” says Father Lanthom, with great piety, “throughout any struggles we may have in the path ahead.”

Huh. That one seems a bit out of place, but Jack hasn’t been practicing in a good, long while. 

“I like that you’re going past the traditional Our Fathers. Covering a lot of bases there, Fa--”

“Lend us your wisdom, Most Heavenly Father, to understand that which we may not understand, and to further us in the hearts and minds of those we hold dear.”

Jack doesn’t know what this has to do with hiding from the Russian mob in a church basement. 

“Amen,” cuts in the man in the mask. 

“Very well,” says Father, retracting his hands. He nods to them both. “I’ll leave you all to any conversations you have yet to have.” Then, he shuffles his way out of the basement, shutting the door firmly behind him. 

There’s the distinct click of a turning lock.

The three of them stare after in damning silence. 

“Father’s sermons sure have changed since I last heard one,” says Jack. Then, “Do you think he forgot we were still down here?”

The man in the mask turns on his heel, walks to one of the windows high on the wall, shoves it open, hauls himself up, and wriggles through. 

Jack watches him go. When the window closes soundly in its sill, he turns back to Maggie Grace. “You think… you think Father’s coming back, or…?”

She huffs at him. 

…

After that, all that's left is to wait. 

Jack does push-ups. Shadow boxes a bit more. The masked man calls once, lets him know that he ought to stay out of sight for a bit longer, because the Russians have a fire under their ass all of a sudden and he’s trying to piece together why. As soon as the sentence is out of his mouth and passing through Jack’s ears, he hangs up, so it’s not like Jack can ask any questions. Claire comes by, checks on how he’s hearing, and doesn’t let him apologize for the embarrassing mess he made of himself the last time she saw him.

In the basement, Maggie sits next to him while on hold with the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children and taps her fingers. 

“Do you think Matty still counts?”

Maggie Grace’s mouth flattens. “What do you mean?”

“Well, he’s grown, now.”

She ignores him. “They help with flyers.”

“I think those might’ve been more useful when we had any idea what he looked like.”

“The website says we should have regular visits with the investigator. How are we meant to do that if we can’t get one on the case?”

“Maybe we could try those lawyer fellas,” suggests Jack. “They’re pretty good. Maybe they can convince a judge to order them to reopen.”

She starts getting agitated. “You’ll have to leave soon. The other sisters--they’re getting restless. You’ll need to go somewhere else.”

“Okay,” says Jack, as gently as he can. “It’ll be fine.”

She chews on her lip. “Do you think we can find out about any tips they may have gotten?”

He doesn’t think there were any tips. “Maybe, Maggie Grace.” 

“I don’t know how you can just stand there and punch at the air,” she snips at him, standing up and starting to pace. “There’s things to be done.”

Maybe. It just ain’t what she’s doing. 

“These people could help,” she insists. 

“They weren’t able to do much twenty years ago,” says Jack, as kind as he can manage. “I don’t see what they could do now.”

Her mouth sets in a hard line. “You could have told me you already spoke to them.”

Jack turns back to his boxing. “You were all excited about the idea. Didn’t see the point in disappointing you.”

“The point is that it was a waste of time.” She stands, then, and starts to pace the room in agitation. “We could have been doing more productive things.”

With a sigh, he turns back to her. “What other things?”

It throws her. “I’m sorry?”

“What other, more productive things do you want to do? I’ll do them now.”

Now, that? That takes the wind out of her. “Well, I need time to think of them, obviously,” she says, a bit lamely. 

“Right,” he says, then he turns back to his boxing. “Let me know when you come up with them.”

“What’s the point in it if you’re just going to say that you already thought of it and did it?” she huffs. 

And Jack replies, “What’s the alternative?” 

…

And that’s just it. Because, at the end of the day, they’re a couple of sad old farts spinning their wheels and not finding any traction. And if they go and admit that to themselves, well, there isn’t much to do past that. 

They don’t have resources. They don’t have leads. They don’t have genius. There is nothing at all they have going for them. They’re stuck doing the same dumb shit as they did twenty years earlier and hoping for some other result. 

But the only other thing they can do is the only alternative they have, which is to give up. 

They’d have to just. Give up. 

…

“Mr. Murdock Coach sir?” Clark sounds nervous. “You comin’ back soon?” 

Not until the Russians stop wanting him dead. “Still sick, Watson.”

He can practically hear Clark sweating. “Fogs is being real weird, sir.”

“Just don’t let him wrangle you into living with him,” says Jack. He made that mistake, once upon a time. “He’s a mother hen.”

“Sir, I--”

There’s a rustling sound. On the other end, Clark yelps. 

“The hell is up with you?” he demands. “Where are you?”

Mary, Jesus, Joseph, and all the wise men. “Lay off, I’m sick.”

“Yeah? Why aren’t you being sick in your apartment?”

Christ alive. “Fogs, don’t go by my place for a bit.”

Immediately, Fogs sounds suspicious. “You get into trouble, Jackie?”

An enormous amount. “No. I’m contagious. Stay home.”

“You’re not being contagious in your apartment.”

“Christ alive, I was probably getting cough medicine or some shit. I’ll be back when I’m back.”

“If something’s up, you better tell me.”

“I’m telling you everything,” laments Jack, fully lying. “Nothing’s up. Just let me be ill in peace.”

Fogs pushes on. “Because the last time you started lying about where you were, I found out that you were hanging around with bad influences.”

Maggie Grace was an aspiring Catholic nun; she wasn’t a drug dealer. 

“I’m hanging up.”

“Stay on, stay on, I’m sorry. I need you to help me with something.”

“No.”

“It’s important,” insists Fogs. “C’mon.”

Jack looks heavenward for strength. And God goes and answers him, miracle of miracles. 

But the problem is that He answers him with church bells. 

Fogs falls into a horrible silence. 

Christ alive, Jack is dead. Fogs knows the bells of Clinton Church. But maybe he doesn’t remember. “I--”

“Judas,” hisses Fogs, and he hangs up. 

“That ain’t good,” says Jack, to no one in particular.

…

Aside from standing up to torture, Jack’s parents prepped him for one other type of life event, and that’s when folks are fighting. Fogs and Maggie Grace are far from angry parents, but they do a damn fine impression of it. 

“Of all the stupid goddamn things--”

“Oh, that’s incisive input,” says Maggie Grace, arms folded firmly across her chest. “Thank you, Fogwell, for once again being a pillar of useful observations.”

“I ain’t talking to you,” says Fogs, who could have fooled Jack. He was looking at her when he said it. “I can’t believe you went and got fuckin’ tortured, Jackie.”

He’s still looking at Maggie, too. 

“I didn’t invite them over,” defends Jack, exasperated.

“And coming here? Of all the stupid places--”

“Oh, and I suppose you’d rather he hide out in the overcrowded gym with his name pasted on the wall.”

“I ain’t talking to you.” He chews on his cheek. “Jackie, why didn’t you fuckin’ call me?”

“I didn’t want to get you mixed up in this business.”

“But he’ll get me mixed up just fine,” mutters Maggie.

“A second ago you were all smug about being the one I called,” says Jack, exasperated. “Pick a side.”

She grumbles something beneath her breath and stomps off to menace some of the clothes Jack left on the floor. 

“Christ alive, Jackie,” says Fogs. He sits his lump of a body down on the cot with a heaviness. “Wasn’t I any good to you? I thought of you like my own.”

The hell? “You were better to me than I had any right to.”

“Then why don’t you ever call me when you’re in trouble, you dumb son of a bitch?” he demands. “First Sweeney, now Russians--you could’ve trusted me with them. I would’ve helped.”

There’s something horribly close to guilt squeezing at his chest. “Fogs, it wasn’t about trust. I didn’t want to get you in trouble.”

“You’re one of my boys. I’m already in trouble when you’re in trouble. Get that through your thick skull.” He drags a hand over his head. “Can’t believe you’d call Maggie up after all these years rather than tell me when you get in trouble.”

Well, that’s just a trap, now isn’t it?

Maggie’s folding sheets like she’s trying to kill them. “It’s Sister Margaret to you.”

“I’ll call you what I please,” snaps back Fogwell. “Don’t you go pullin’ him back into your nonsense.”

Oh Christ.

“I pulled him in?” scoffs Maggie, cocking out her hip with all the danger of someone cocking a pistol. “He was the one running around flirting with nuns. ‘Oh, I figure you’re not about to put something in my drink, because you’re a nun, won’t you ever help?’ ‘Oh, let me take you out to dinner, I figure I owe you.’ ‘Oh, won’t you let me see you again, I--’”

That ain’t how he remembers it. 

“He was set to be a champion boxer,” spits Fogs, shaking a fist at her. “Before you and your, your--”

“Fogs, that’s enough. She’s helping me look for our baby.”

All the air goes out of both of them. 

Fogs slumps against the cot. He chews on his old, worn lip. “I thought I was doing that.”

“Oh?” Maggie folds her arms across her chest. “And what have you found?” 

“What have you found?” Fogs demands right back. “At least I helped him get the PI.”

None of them have found a goddamn thing. “I thought you knew,” says Jack. “You were going on about me in the old days.”

“Oh,” says Fogs, visibly cringing. “That. That’s a different problem.”

…

“I don’t know if this is a kidnapping,” says Clark, lookin’ awfully wide-eyed and scared on Fogs’ old, beat-up couch. His hair looks less floppy, all wet and stuck down from the shower. “I have my own apartment.”

“It’s not a kidnapping; it’s an intervention, and it’s for your own good. Now, you can go back to your apartment when you’re smart enough to stay there on your own,” says Fogs, pacing his living room with great agitation. “Now, you, you tell ‘em, Jackie. You tell ‘em.”

Jack does not want to tell him. “Fogs, I think you should let the boy go home.” 

“I didn’t bring you here to say that,” says Fogs, exasperated. “I brought you here to tell ‘em about clothes. Now set him straight, Jackie.”

Jack desperately does not want to tell him. “Clark, look, he ain’t gonna give you the time of day anyway. Men of mystery aren’t the kind to settle down.”

“You don’t know that,” mutters Clark, half-mutinous, staring down at his hands. “I got the same chance as everyone else.”

“No you don’t,” says Jack, exasperated. “Look, Clark, I admire the can-do attitude, but you don’t even know if this fella is into fellas.”

“I don’t know he isn’t,” he complains. “And I’ll respect it if he isn’t, but I don’t see why I can’t try to get to know him.”

“You can’t try to get to know him because it involves getting your dumb fucking ass killed,” says Fogs, jabbing a finger at him. “You, you tell him about clothes, Jackie.”

Jack absolutely will not be doing that.

“I don’t see why you’re putting so much effort into it,” says Maggie Grace, with great dignity and distinction. She’s sitting in Fogs’ equally beat-up armchair like it’s the throne of God Himself. “He seems like a fool.”

Christ, that’s not what we tell him, Maggie. It’s too late, though. Clark perks right up. “You’ve heard of him?”

This is not how Jack wanted to spend his night. 

The problem is that Clark, bless his heart and soul, is a firm believer in going out with best efforts and unearned confidence and trying to make his dreams reality. He had someone special in his heart, and by God in heaven, he was gonna try to have that fella’s hand if there was the smallest chance in the world.  

Which means Fogs caught him wandering in shady back alleys with a little box of chocolates in one pocket and caramels in the other, just in case his sweetheart wasn’t one for chocolates. 

Fogs wouldn’t shut up until he came to set Clark straight, as someone who could speak from “personal experience” about clothes you best leave on. Maggie took offense to that, and insisted on coming along so she could torment Fogwell for a longer period of time. Jack agreed to come to get both of them to shut up. 

Father Lantom stared at them for six unbroken seconds after they finished explaining, declared that he decided this was a step in the right direction, and refused to explain what direction that was. 

Then he handed them the keys to the church van. 

Maggie tosses her head. “I’ve met him. His outfit is ludicrous.”

Now Clark is getting all up in arms in defense of his honey. “It’s a gift.”

They need to head this off before it gets embarrassing. “I think Fogs is just worried about you getting hurt.”

“It’s about the clothes,” interrupts Fogs, frustrated. He starts with jabbing his finger again. “Look, this fella wears a mask, don’t he? You’re supposed to leave masks on. It’s how these things are supposed to go.”

Clark shoots a nervous look at Maggie Grace. “I don’t think this is the same as that.”

Fuck, don’t say that, he’ll get them all killed. 

“How is it not?”

Don’t ask that, Fogs. 

“Well, I can’t get him pregnant, for one.”

They will all die. 

“I say you leave them to each other,” says Maggie, tossing her head again. “Let them be fools together.”

“Thank you,” says Clark, with great sincerity. 

“Am I the only one with any sense?” says Fogs, staring heavenward. “Stop trying to get involved with him. It ain’t a good idea.”

“Why not?” he demands. “He’s a good man.”

“I think he’s just on a different walk of life,” Jack reasons. “And Fogs is worrying that you may be swept up in it.”

“There’s nothing he’s facing that I wouldn’t be willing to face with him,” says Clark, stubbornly. “And that’s the truth.”

It’s then that the bombs go off.

…

“It wasn’t him,” Clark insists at the T.V. “These folks are being stupid.”

It’s been hours since the explosion, and none of them have dared brave the streets. Clark got it into his head to try, on account that his sweetheart may be hurt and needing a hand, but Fogs stopped him. Which was good, because Jack wasn’t in any state to stop him. Rather, he was right on the verge of hitting the streets himself. 

The news has pinned the entire blame on the man in the mask. Calling him a terrorist, or something thereabouts. A shitty fucking frame job against a man who brings lost babies home. 

He may be hurt. And the thought is enough to send Jack’s heart stuttering something terrible in his chest. 

“He’s violently beating up half the NYPD,” huffs Maggie, waving her hand at the news broadcast. She didn’t share nearly the same concern as Jack, but then again, she was always better at covering her fears up. Then, “But I have to agree, he didn’t do it.”

“I didn’t,” says the masked man.

“Jesus Christ,” says Fogs, a hand over his heart.

In the doorway of Fogs’ living room stands the man in black, still covered in dust and debris, traces of dried blood trailing down his neck. He waves a hand at the T.V., where the anchors are still talking about him blowing up half of Hell’s Kitchen. 

“Yeah, that’s not live,” he says, and he limps his way over to the couch. “I was going to wait for you to leave, but it sounds like you were going to be here for a while, and, well, I’ve had a hell of a night.” He sits down hard on the cushions, then hangs his head and mops a hand along the back of his neck. “Christ.”

Clark’s mugs at him with his trap hanging open like his jaw’s on a hinge. 

Jack rushes up to him. “You hurt?”

“I’ll live,” he replies, grimly. “Don’t go back to the Church, though.”

Like a shock’s running through her, Maggie straightens. “Did something happen to it?”

“No, there are just some really angry nuns there.” He shakes his head. “I came to tell you that the Russians won’t be a problem anymore. It’s taken care of.” 

There’s a damning beat. 

“Is it because they got blown up?” says Maggie Grace, incredulous. 

“Not exactly.” He shakes his head again like he’s trying to shake something out of it. “Tonight just made things a little interesting.” 

“You call Hell’s Kitchen getting blown up interesting?” demands Fogs. 

“No. I call it a mistake.”

“A mistake?”

“Not mine,” he says, and he smiles with all his teeth. “The man who did it won’t have many more opportunities to make them.” 

“You know who that is?” asks Jack. 

“I didn’t come here for that. I came here to make sure you weren’t involved after tonight. Russians were the only ones who knew about you. They’re done. So is our involvement.”

Oh. This was always supposed to be a thing that would end, wasn’t it? Jack can’t help but feel a bit of loss running through him.

“I could help you out. If you needed a, a patch up, or--”

“No.”

It’s spoken with certainty. He guesses that really is it. 

Jack gestures to the door. “You should at least stay until it calms down outside.”

“I should go,” says the man, moving to stand. He groans in obvious pain. 

“Sit down,” says Maggie, marching to his side. “Or you’ll fall.”

“I’m fine,” he insists.

She pushes him back with one hand. Without any resistance at all, he flops backwards, sinking back into the cushions with a wince.

Maggie quirks her brow. 

When he recovers, he shoots her a humorless smile and says, “I guess a few minutes wouldn’t hurt.”

Jack gives him the benefit of a few seconds to catch his breath before he asks, “So who set off the bombs?”

The man in the mask tries to stand again. “And time to go.”

“Calm down. Want me to call Claire?”

“Nah. She’s put up with too much from me tonight already.”

“You can stay the night. It may be better. Give you more time to recover.” 

“You offering my apartment?” gripes Fogs. Then, he says, “You can stay the night, though.”

“I’m not staying the night.”

All of a sudden, Clark appears at his elbow, a bit too wide-eyed, a bit too nervous. There’s a glass of water in his hand. He shoves it at the masked man. “I thought you might be thirsty.”

The man seems a bit surprised, but he takes it. “Thank you.”

“I’m Clark,” says Clark, running a hand through his hair. Oh Christ. “Clark Watson. You probably don’t remember me, but you--”

“I remember,” he grunts, leaning back against the couch with a wince. “You were jumped. Behind a liquor store. Few weeks ago. Good jab. Glad to see you healed up alright.”

Clark rocks back on his heels. He looks like he might swoon right into his sweetheart’s arms, which is terrible, because Clark’s fuckin’ huge and this guy looks like all it would take is a stiff wind for him to crumple like a tin can. “Really? You remember me?”

The man in the mask just grunts again. 

“I figure that,” says Clark, laughing a little. “You--you seem like you got that real personal touch.” 

“Okay,” says the man in the mask. 

Fuck. This is going to be humiliating. 

“You really think my jab is good?”

“Sure. Good form. Good footwork. You’re a good fighter.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“I’m not.”

“I’m nothing like you though.” He looks him up and down, his cheeks flushing red. “You’re something, I think, I think you’re really something special.” 

“That’s kind of you to say.”

“You really can stay the night,” says Clark, with all the earnestness he can muster. “You can sleep in my bed.”

Jesus Almighty. 

Immediately, he turns flustered. “Not in a forward way. I’ll take the couch. I figure it might just be more comfortable for you.” There’s a beat. “Unle--no, no, never mind.”

The corner of his lips upturn. “I appreciate the offer,” he says. “But I should go.”

“I think you’re beautiful,” blurts Clark.

“Thank you,” says the man in the mask. 

“Okay,” says Fogs, clapping firmly. “Let’s let these folks have some privacy.”

Clark doesn’t move. “It’s plenty private.”

“I think we ought to let it be a little more private.”

“If you need anything,” says Clark, half strangled by the collar of his shirt from how hard Fogs is tugging him, “I’d be more than happy to give you a hand.”

“I appreciate that,” replies the man in the mask, nodding slightly. “But I don’t want to cause any more trouble.”

“You can cause me trouble any day of the week.” 

This is humiliating.

A shit-eating grin creeps up on this fella’s face. “Keep it up and I might blush.”

Oh Christ. 

“I would consider it a personal accomplishment if I could manage as much.”

Oh, this is worse than when it was just Clark. This is hell. Fogs mops a hand down his face with a horrible groan before he starts yanking him out by his elbow. “March, Watson.”

“It was nice seeing you,” the man in the mask calls after him. 

Stop encouraging this. 

Fogs hauls Clark clean over the living room threshold and slams the door between them. 

This guy’s grin hasn’t lost an ounce of his smugness. It just curls around the cup of his water as he takes a sip. “He was nice.”

“Don’t you start,” says Maggie, witheringly. “What the hell happened out there?”

“It’s better you don’t know.” Which is never an answer Maggie Grace has ever wanted to hear. “Just know that it will be taken care of. And that it means we’re done.”

She chews her lip. “It’s not as simple as that. We may as well be your accomplices, and the entire city thinks you’re a terrorist.”

“It is as simple as that,” he insists. “The other sisters… were less than happy to see me again, but Father Lantom intervened. They won’t breathe a word to the police, as long as I’m gone and so is he.”

He nods to Jack, at that. 

It surprises him, even though it probably shouldn’t. “I can’t go back?”

“You won’t be turned away at Sunday services.” He shrugs. “They want you out of the basement. Your apartment should be safe again. I’ll keep an ear out, but everything should be settled from here on out.”

“Right,” says Jack, a sense of loss growing in him. “I just thought--”

The man’s head turns towards him in expectation. 

“--I thought it’d take longer,” he finishes, a bit lamely. “That’s all.”

“Bombs speed things up,” he says, a bit dry. “Speaking of…”

He hauls himself off the couch, at that, and stumbles a bit as he does. But he stays upright. That’s the thing about this fellow--Jack, he gets knocked on his ass and made a lifestyle about lugging himself to his feet again. But this fella probably just doesn’t go down to begin with. 

“Alright, then,” he says, trailing after him.  “If you ever need anything--”

All at once, the man stops. He turns his head just enough for his profile to be framed against the dim light of the room. “I think a clean break may be better,” he says. “For both of us.”

The wind goes out of him all at once. “Right.”

“It’s better this way,” he says, sounding apologetic. “You get your life back. You get to move on. And I--I’m better this way too.”

“Right. You don’t gotta explain things to me.”

He starts for the door again. Then, he stops, one hand on the door knob. “I am sorry, Jack. For what little it’s worth.”

This guy apologizes a hell of a lot to him.

…

He’s gone, after that, and he was always supposed to do that, and Jack always was supposed to know as much. He only came back because Jack’s dumb ass almost got killed, and there wasn’t anything to ever suggest he’d have even the slightest inkling about staying the second time. 

He wasn’t ever Jack’s. They barely knew each other. Didn’t even have the fella’s name. Jack hasn’t had anyone since his boy, which means he hasn’t lost anyone since his boy, which means he has no right feeling a sense of loss at this guy leaving his life. 

In fact, he should be glad for it, getting free and clear of some kind of terrible trouble without more than a few scrapes to show for it. This is exactly the kind of business that kills men.

He wishes this guy stuck around. He can’t figure out why, but him taking off left something hollow in his chest.  

There are some things he guesses you just can’t explain. 

…

Fuckin’ Clark passes through half an hour later, pumping barbells and trying to act like that’s a casual fuckin’ thing to do. He deflates the second he realizes it’s just Jack on the couch. 

“He’s gone?”

“I told you you’d look fuckin’ stupid,” calls Fogs, from the other room. 

Looking forlorn, Clark sits down hard in the armchair. His barbells clank as they settle on Fogs’ floor. “I was gonna give him my number.”

 “I don’t think he’d call, Watson,” says Jack, as sympathetic as he can manage.

“I know,” he admits, head drooping.  “But it’d be nice to think he’d have the option.”

“Don’t be stupid,” huffs Maggie, rolling her eyes. “I doubt he needs you to give him your number if he wants to be an idiot with you.”

It’s enough to give Clark back a ray of hope. “You think?”

“I think that my heart can’t take this,” says Fogs, and he stomps his way in the room. “Sister, stop tormenting the boy. Watson, stop tormenting me.”

“Can’t you let me dream, Coach?” laments Clark. 

“Absolutely not. Give me peace, son.”

He hauls himself off the couch like a petulant teenager. “I’m going home.”

Fogs shouts after him, “You go back to your room until the city stops blowing up.”

Clark waves a hand over his shoulder, harried, but he stomps back to the room.

Despite it all, Jack can’t help but vouch a bit in his favor. “It’s a puppy crush, Fogs. It ain’t a big deal.”

Fogs shakes his head like a stubborn old goat. “You don’t know Watson the way I do. I know him. I pulled him off the streets. Clark’s a boy who puts his whole heart into things. I don’t want him getting swept up in someone living too fast a life for him. I brought him into my gym; I’m not taking my eye off of him.”

Hell. That sounds like how Fogs used to describe him. Except back when Jack was making mistakes, Fogs had more of the idea that it was best to let the dumb young folks make their own mistakes and learn from them.

Maggie Grace is awfully quiet next to him. 

As if he’s just now noticing the horrible fuckin’ mood, Fogs glances between him and Maggie. “The fuck is up with you two?”

“I don’t have the slightest idea as to what you mean.” She rubs the flat of her hands against her legs. “Well. I should be heading back.”

In response, Fogs squints at her like she’s nuts. “The city’s fuckin’ crazy right now.”

“I can manage. The church van needs to be back tomorrow to shuttle in parishioners from the senior center.”

“That’s not for hours. I don’t see the rush.” He grunts. “Stay. We ought to be talkin’ about this, anyway.”

“I don’t see what there is to talk about.”

“‘Course you don’t.” Fogs rolls his eyes. “Suppose you want me to just sit on my hands and leave you two to run around doing all the finding.”

The fuck? “What’re you on about, Fogs?” 

“What am I--what do you think?” He glances between them. “Aren’t we all looking for Matty?”

Oh right. Fuck. They are. It was just supposed to be apart. 

Maggie Grace blinks, but she recovers quickly. Straightening, she nods and says, “I suppose a short meeting wouldn’t hurt.”

“You suppose,” grunts Fogs, settling down on the couch next to him. His eyebrows fly up. “So? We gonna get on this before I’m dead of old age?”

Right. Shit. That’s it. That’s what he needs to focus on from here on out. That’s what matters. 

The man in the mask was a glimpse of something special. A world few ever get even the barest knowledge of, and even fewer survive. But he ain’t Jack’s son. He ain’t his baby, and while Jack can give up on the idea of this fella coming back, he can’t give up on his Matty. 

If he does, well… 

That ain’t a world Jack has any intention of staying in.