There would be some irony if it were a Sunday.

But Matt's patrolling on a Wednesday night when it happens, and in fact it's been unusually quiet. Earlier on he'd found a few people about to vandalize a deli and had loomed over the rooftop until he was noticed; their screams of fright were amusing, though he had no intention of pursuing them for such a relatively minor thing. They had fled in a mad rush, leaving the street stinking of adrenaline in their wake. Otherwise, though, he's found nothing tonight.

Not that he's complaining.

It's almost like meditation, to sit on the rooftop of the Westside Theatre and listen to the low hum of the building's lights. At this time there are few sounds in Hell's Kitchen, but that doesn't mean the world is without life. On these patrols he is always focusing, always searching for something that could point him to a worthy target, and he pays attention to what his body tells him. The wooden stoop by the theatre door reeks of mustard and soap where someone dropped a sandwich earlier today; two rats are fighting across the street, not lethally, scrabbling at each other with tiny claws and reproachful squeaks. Heat radiates from a string of neon-lights in the opposite building, but one of them is damaged and colder than the others. It will probably fail soon.

Nothing useful appears to him for a long while, but it's restful to let this input wash over him within the maddening chaos brought with the hum of activity that accompanies daylight and people. If Matt wouldn't primarily a lawyer, he would do well on the night-shift.

He's just thinking of calling it a night and getting some actual sleep for once when he hears something suddenly and distinctly from far away. The squelch of ragged shoes on alley-way mud. The soft slide of metal on fabric, a knife being drawn. Heart-beats racing.

A voice: "Settle down. Easy. This doesn't have to be hard, Father..."

He moves.

Once, Foggy had asked Matt how Daredevil could jump from rooftop to rooftop with ease. There's a certain point where even sensitive hearing, he had reasoned, can't account for knowing the location of points meters away, separated by emptiness and hollow spaces.

It comes down partly to sensing the pressure of air and wind, the push and tug of forces even as he approaches a structure. But he knows he would have a harder time in any other city, too. Hell's Kitchen is his home. He has climbed almost every building here by now. He knows the city.

So it is easy to race from the theatre top, taking a running leap onto the nearest building and making a sharp left turn that leaves him adjacent to West 44th Street. The smells from restaurants near the building assault him, and his mind provides the names: Lenny's, Ajisai, Gallo Nero -

He sprints over the top of the New Dramatists club and the Actor's Studio, both smelling of wax and paint lacquer, then goes over the pungent-oily tiles of another restaurant. Shingles rattle under his boots.

"You don't want to do this," says a familiar voice.

Someone laughs.

When he scales down the wall near Omni's Dry Cleaners, he can hear the way one heart-beat picks up. He's been spotted. But only by the person he's here to help.

"You really don't want to do this," insists Father Lantom now.

One man snorts. There are three of them, and they smell like whiskey and mints. One of them moves forward with the knife, raising it.

They never expect him.

Matt cracks the first mugger across the head and lays him out to groan on the ground; the others only have time to whip around before Matt is closing the remaining distance, appearing before the man with the knife and twisting his wrist. The knife clatters to the ground and the man swears, raising his other hand to strike at Matt's side. It's a feeble move, and one he ignores. He tugs the man's wrist around his back, forcibly bends him over, and knees him in the gut.

This happens in the span of a few seconds.

The last figure shouldn't be a problem. He is alone, frightened, probably untrained. Matt twists to face him quickly, but not urgently. Then he detects it – the cold scent of metal, a smell like fire and eggs and death. A gun.

He dives for the man's feet just as a shot rings out.

Matt's face slides gracelessly across the dirt, but the tackle works. The man yelps as he falls to the ground, suddenly tangled and lost. Matt rears back, raises his fist, and hits him across the jaw. There's a resounding snap of cracking bone. He buffets the man with blows, lost in rage.

A gun. A gun.

He hates guns -

"Stop. That's enough."

The man twitches and shudders under him, flails. Then, he slumps. His muscles sag.

Matt raises his hand and strikes the man again.

"Enough, Matt!"

Matt stops.

His breath whistles out lightly. The would-be mugger's body is warm and limp under him. In one fluid movement he loosens his grasp on the man, pushing himself up to his feet.

Everything seems very quiet suddenly. He tilts his head, assessing the situation. Father Lantom's heart is beating slow and steady. Calm. Even.

Unafraid.

Matt is suddenly aware of the blood sticking to his jaw. It hinders the movement of his mouth, clings to his stubble. Bits of gravel are caught in a cut by his ear. His head rings with the grinding sound these make when he moves.

"Are you done," asks the Father.

On the ground, the first man is still conscious. He is breathing rapidly, heart fluttering like a bird. With a sudden, desperate sob, he drags himself to his feet. Matt hears the catch of his hands against the ground, the bite of his nails scraping over wet pavement. Pebbles clatter over stone. He runs like the devil will chase him.

"Yes," says Matt.

He wonders how many 'hail Mary's' it takes, to be forgiven for breaking a man's jaw in front of a priest.

"Good," Lantom sighs. "Come here, will you? Let me just - "

Matt slowly steps closer to Lantom's voice as the rustling of fabric reaches his ears. There's a few loud beeps, and he feels the displacement of air as Lantom raises something warm and humming to his ear. The familiar, recorded click of a phone sets his mind at ease.

"Nine-one-one," says a brisk voice. "What is your emergency..."

Matt tunes this out, too. The wind whistles against his skin, the line of the vein in his throat. He is still breathing hard. He shouldn't be. The fight is over. The fight was not even difficult, but this -

Father Lantom is here, and this is Different.

"Are you alright?"

The phone call is finished.

He hasn't been injured in the fight. Not really. The scratches on his face, the bruises on his arm from where he hit the ground – these don't even qualify. But suddenly his legs won't support him. He falls to his knees. Lantom's heart remains a slow, steady pulse, a metronome. Matt counts out his flaws against it.

A hand reaches out, brushing away some grit to slowly reveal a small bleeding slice in his skin. The touch flows up, lingering on the horns of the costume, the Devil's horns, and the hand stays there. It feels like a benediction. But what Lantom says is: "You can't do this for me."

Matt says nothing for moment.

"I'm grateful. I am. But you can't."

"Forgive me, Father - "

"Not for me," says Lantom, as though he hasn't heard at all. "You mustn't – you can't do this for me, do you understand? On my behalf - never that. Never again."

Matt is silent.

He doesn't want to lie. And he doesn't know if he can make that promise.

Lantom pulls away after a moment. The night feels cold.

"The police will be here soon."

"I can hear them," Matt says. He can, far, far away. He stands. " - Are you going to wait?"

"No, I don't think so. Perhaps I should, but..."

Matt nods.

When Lantom starts to move, though, he asks: "Why were you here?"

"I was walking to St. Cornelius, to meet a colleague. I thought I heard someone crying in the alley... I should have known better, but, well."

This makes Matt angry, too. Someone taking advantage of a man's kindness, his goodwill... "Thank you, Father. I was just curious."

"Of course." A pause. "...I hope to see you at church."

Matt nods slowly.

When Father Lantom leaves, Matt stays still for a long time. He listens until the man's footsteps fade, until his heartbeat is a distant rhythm existing only in memory.

Then, he snaps.

The brick wall of the cleaner's is old and dilapidated enough that it actually gives way under his fist, crumbling in soft flakes. Shock-waves ring up his arm, and his knuckles protest the abuse. He punches again. Again. Skin splits. Copper sours the air.

Some things should remain separate.

Some things are sacred.

When he stops, his hands are wet and the ache feels pleasant. He runs a shaking hand over his face, and feels blood drip down and cling to his lips.

He might need to avoid church for a few days. But he has a lot to confess.