Trigger warnings for racism and ableism. Spoilers for Agents of SHIELD Season 2 Episode 17

In the Agents of SHIELD episode Melinda, Skye talks about being at St. Agnes and losing friends as they came and went. In the Daredevil TV series, Matt Murdock is shown to be at St. Agnes for a period of time. Skye and Matt are probably close in age; he might be one to three years older than her. So they could have been there around the same time.

And so that's where this comes from. From the the descriptions and depictions of St. Agnes-orphanage + daycare + actual nuns in habits + small personal rooms-I'm imagining it as a fairly large combination church and boarding school and child care center sort of complex. This is entirely my own interpretation, and meant to stick with canon as closely as it can. I'm also playing a little fast and loose with Skye and Matt's ages, which is a stretch of canon but not intended to be divergent or AU.

They're not friends right away, because no one is friends with the 'crazy twitchy blind boy' (that's what Joey calls him, and everyone mostly goes along with it) whose room is at the very end of the hall that serves as the boys' dormitory. Everyone either avoids him or harasses him. At most, they yell at him. No one is friends with him.

He's a little older than Skye and he's blind, and this is the grand total of what she knows about him at first. As the days go by she learns more. He barely eats. He gets around with his walking stick when Gillian doesn't steal it, and by running his hands along the walls and railings when she does. He seldom ventures past the steps in the yard. He never plays with anyone. He just stares out at the world behind those glasses of his, silent and still in class and at recess. On occasion he's practically catatonic.

Some days he doesn't come out of his room at all, which Skye can sympathize with. She can't count how often she's wanted nothing more than to sit at her desk and read or draw or really do anything other than listen to Sara ask her for the hundredth time what country her parents were really from.

("Asia," Becky says, and Skye snaps, "Asia's not a country." The outburst during class gets her detention, but it's worth it later when Becky can't list the countries which comprise Asia, and Skye can.)

On the days she doesn't see him in class or on the modest blacktop which serves as the orphanage playground she lingers by the flower boxes below the windows of the boys' floor, listening. She thinks she hears sobbing or broken bits of conversation, though she can't be sure. It could just be the city surrounding them or the kids at play. Between those two things random noises are common. But she wonders just the same.

Skye catches Gillian trying to steal his cane yet again one afternoon during lunch break and decides this time she's going to intervene. Sooner or later Gillian's going to use it on someone (instead of throwing it up in a tree like she usually does), and all things being equal Skye's a top candidate for first victim. So really, she's just trying to save herself some grief. The part where she's defending a boy one to two years older than her is entirely irrelevant.

They've cornered him at the back exit from the big school building, where the doors leading out of the two wings open onto a small patio garden that if not for the early spring flowers would be a study in gray bricks and green moss. A statue of St. Agnes and her lamb, probably once milky white but now streaked black with mildew, observes the proceedings. It's secluded back here, and unless a Sister happens to come out this way to water the flowers they won't be interrupted. Skye only discovers them because she likes to hide back here and spend her recess in peace, usually with a book.

She stands on tiptoe and peers out the west wing's back door window, then shoves the door open and marches out, announcing, "Let go."

Gillian looks surprised but undeterred. "Why? He'll just hit someone with it."

"He only hits the ground."

"I saw him hit Jeremy with it yesterday."

"That was an accident," the boy says, his voice strained. He's clinging to the handle of his cane with one hand and the wrought iron railing of the stairs leading down from the patio into the yard with the other.

"Jeremy probably just got in the way," Skye says. "I bet on purpose."

"Why would he do it on purpose?"

"So he'd have an excuse to be mean."

Becky—Gillian's brought her along as back up it seems—sneers, "We're supposed to turn the other cheek."

Skye has a theory about Gillian and Becky and decides now is as good a time as any to put it to the test. She says, "So turn your cheek and I'll take my best shot," and advances down the steps and towards them. Gillian releases her hold on the walking stick and scurries back.

"No you—no you won't. I'll tell Sister Loretta!"

Skye grins. She's always suspected Gillian was a coward, and being right makes her giddy. "And I'll tell her you were trying to steal his cane so you could beat him up with it." She glances back at the boy to make sure he's okay; he's sitting on the old, gray, brick steps, gripping the walking stick in both hands and leaning forward like he wants to curl up into a tiny ball.

Sounding desperate, Becky says, "She won't believe you!"

Skye turns her attention back to Gillian and Becky and raises her chin. "I bet she will." Gillian is in retreat, but Becky seems on the fence, so she adds, "Especially after I tell her who stole Sister Hope's grandmother's rosary."

Becky's eyes go saucer-wide. Gillian grabs her by the arm and bodily drags her away. Once they disappear around the corner of the building Skye heaves a sigh of relief and sits down next to the boy. He doesn't react, so she says, "You okay?"

He makes a sort of furtive gesture that might be a nod. She waits, because she suspects he's not going to react well to prying. Eventually, he says, "Were you really going to hit her?"

Skye snorts. "No. But she doesn't know that."

"Oh." He looks like he's thinking things over very carefully. "How did you know it was them?"

"Know what was them?"

"The rosary."

"I didn't. It was just a good guess."

"What if it hadn't been them?"

She shrugs, and when he doesn't do or say anything in response she squints at him. "Can you tell when someone does that?"

"Does what?"

"Shrug. Or nod or, you know, that stuff."

"Sometimes I can hear them move."

"Oh. Well, I just shrugged." He makes that same not-quite-a-nod movement again, and now she's curious. "Have you always been blind?"

"No. It was—" He swallows, and his hands grip the walking stick tight enough to make his knuckles go white. "No."

She's seen the 'I don't want to talk about that' reaction from enough other kids to know that she's not getting anything about it out of him, at least not today. "Got it," she says, and he relaxes a little. "I'd just tell them I had a way to make it look like it was them. And if that didn't work I'd start screaming for one of the Sisters."

He looks alarmed. "Wouldn't we get in trouble for fighting?"

She stops herself from shrugging again. "Only if I couldn't convince them Gillian started it. But I'm a pretty good liar."

He smiles weakly. He shoves his walking stick around in a crescent shape in front of them a few times, then asks, "How long have you been here?"

"All my life. I've gone to a couple of homes, but nothing's stuck."

"So you grew up here?"

"Yep." She bites her lip. "What's your name?"

He's a moment in responding. "Matt."

She takes one of his hands, which startles him, but before he can yank it back she shakes it once, firmly, and lets go. That hand forms into a fist for a few seconds, then he flattens it against his knee.

"I'm Skye," she says, making sure to sound as proud as possible.

His face screws up. "Skye?"

Reluctantly, she admits, "The Sisters call me Mary Sue," trying to inject as much nonchalance into the statement as possible. "But that's just the name they made up for me. Skye's the name I picked."

"You can't pick your own name."

"Why not?"

He's very clearly engaged in an internal struggle over the very notion. "Because that's not—that's not where names come from."

"Well it's where mine comes from."

"But it's not your real name."

He's making her mad, but of course he can't see that, so she says (more loudly than she might otherwise), "Is so." He stills, looking taken aback, and she continues, "My real name is whatever I tell people it is."

His hands work as he grips the cane. "Oh."

They sit without talking for the rest of recess. Birds chirp from the trees surrounding the yard and the other kids yell and squeal as they play dodge ball. When the bell rings those excited shouts turn to complaints and the occasional accusation as everyone puts their things away and returns to the classrooms.

"Thanks," he says, and starts to get up, using the railing for additional support. She stands and hovers, ready to grab him if he has trouble, but he doesn't.

"Sure thing." She dusts off her hands vigorously so he can hear it. "But next time Kevin's pulling my hair you have to whack him in the shin. A good one, too."

He smiles. It's a devious smile, Skye thinks. Helping him out was a good idea.

"Okay," he says.