My muse tossed this at my feet, and I couldn't let it go.

So, here we are.

A disclaimer that I do not own Daredevil or any of its characters. Some bits of dialogue are from the show itself, and Daredevil and all associated with it are the intellectual property of Netflix and Marvel and all involved. I'm merely a fan just writing a story. I do, however, own Iris and any subsequent OCs that may appear.

I've been wanting to write for this fandom for awhile now, and instead of dipping my toe in it, I'm diving right in!

So, anyway, without further ado:

Devil's Kindred!

Hell, Home, or Somewhere In-Between

Iris held the crumpled piece of paper tightly in her hands, trying to calm her breathing. She unfolded it for the fiftieth time, eyes pouring over the address, though she really didn't have to. She'd memorized it already. Frowning, she cast a side-long glance at the white paper bag sitting beside her. It seemed like such a good idea at the time, but she wondered if the gesture may be a bit…much. As if a cheap pastry was going to help make this reunion any easier.

"You gonna get out or what?" the cabbie scoffed, narrowing his eyes at her in the rearview mirror.

"Sorry," Iris muttered, swiping her purse from the seat next to her. She hastily tossed the wad of cash, crisp and clean and fresh from the airport ATM, into the front seat. The cabbie muttered something to her, but she was outside before it could reach her ears. She had to keep moving before she changed her mind.

Her heels made frantic clicks against the pavement as she moved towards the block of apartments. A structure that looked like it had seen better days. She had to admit, her ensemble may have been a bit pristine for this part of town. She probably stood out in the worst way possible, years away from this city taking out every ounce of the native in her.

"Oh, hell," she muttered, trying to at least appear like she half-way knew what she was doing as she finally found the courage to enter the building. To rip off the Band-Aid, to propel herself into the turmoil, the tension and betrayal, the emotional shit-show this reunion was about to be. Before she could change her mind, she clicked the buzzer.

"Yeah," the gruff voice from the little box at the door. Iris tossed her weight from foot to foot.

"Um, here to visit a resident," her voice cracked. "He's, um…not expecting me. Murdock. Matthew Murdock."

There was an irate sigh, which Iris guessed she wasn't supposed to hear, before the door clicked open. No going back now, she thought.

The lift was sketchy as anything, and so she braved the stairs. Gave her more time to think this through, at least. Each creak in the ancient steps a tiny whisper, asking her if she really wanted to do this. He'd hate her. Probably did hate her. She hated her for it, the selfish decisions she'd made. He'd have no reason to want to see her again.

She flinched a little at her own choice on language. She'd been good about it, before, when they were younger. When things were simpler. But….years away had made her sloppy, thoughtless.

The door loomed before her, her heart quickening a little as she stood….staring. Her eyes traced the apartment number, her hand shakily raising to meet the wood. She barely registered that she was knocking. A quick, loud wrap with shaking hands.

There was only silence at first, and Iris was about to scamper away, half-relieved in defeat, when the voice sounded. "Yeah. Yeah. Wait."

Iris's chest squeezed, her stomach dropping to her feet. She crumbled the paper bag in her hands, her breathing quickening. The door flew open and she was staring right into tinted lenses. Old sweats, a hoodie, messy brown hair. He leaned lazily against the doorframe. Had she woken him up?

"Matty," the name tumbled from her mouth before she could even begin to think about it. He shifted, straightening up. She wasn't sure if he recognized her voice. Time and a new location had morphed her proud New-York dialect into something vaguely Southern. There was more Charlotte than Hell's Kitchen in her vernacular now.

"Iris."

Or maybe she should give him more credit….

She couldn't tell if he was angry. The way he said her name was more numb shock than anything. Even so, just hearing her name in his voice sent a stab of guilt shooting up her spine.

"I…" she started lamely, crinkling the bag in her hands again. "I brought éclairs from Ethan's. That place where we used to go with D…"

"I know what Ethan's is," he cut her off. Yep, there was the anger…

She didn't know what to say, but she didn't have to come up with anything. He pinched the bridge of his nose, whole body heaving with a sigh, and stepped aside, opening the door wider. "Come in."

She hesitated for a moment before taking the invitation, drinking in the apartment. The only light was that which filtered through the windows. And there wasn't much in way of decorations either. But it seemed nice enough. Especially by Hell's Kitchen standards.

"What are you doing here?" he accused, door slamming behind him. He moved slowly, carefully, as if his muscles were screaming beneath his skin.

"Matty, I know you're mad at me. I…."

"Mad?" he scoffed. "I'm not mad, Iris. I'm apathetic. As apathetic as you were when you up and left and never came back."

Iris's breath hitched. The comment was like an uppercut to the jaw, no matter how much she'd prepared for it.

"Foggy. Foggy. Foggy."

The automated voice startled Iris, cutting through the tension like a knife. Matty's head titled in the direction of the sound and he shuffled away, gesturing in Iris's direction, silently telling her to wait.

"Yeah," his voice floated from the other room.

"Good morning sunshine," the voice of "Foggy" rang from the other line on speaker.

"What time is it?" Matty sighed, trying and failing to keep the strain from his voice. Iris took a step forward toward the doorway. He was perched on the edge of his bed, shifting in response to the sound of her heels. She paused, not wanting to intrude any more than she already had.

"Half past get the hell up. Let's go. We gotta meet the real estate agent in forty-five."

Matty let a barely audible groan push its way past his lips.

"Was that a moan? Do you have someone in bed with you? Murdock, is there a woman in your apartment? The paralegal? Is it the para over at….you know what, never mind. I don't want to know." A beat. "Just kidding. I do wanna hear about it. What's mystery girl like?"

A frown mars Matty's face. "Unexpected." Iris shifted her weight again.

"Gotta get the blind thing going," Foggy sighed. "So unfair."

"Trust me, Fog, it isn't what you think."

"If you say so. Listen, on the subject of women: real estate agent. So not your type. Very homely. Might be genetic. No need to be charming. And she kind of told me she thinks blind people are 'God's mistake'."

Iris, in spite of herself, rolled her eyes.

"That's a horrible thing to say, Foggy," Matt sighed, echoing Iris's thoughts, but with a tiny smile on his face.

"I know! In this day and age! Alright, shake it. Gonna go bribe a cop."

"Foggy," Matt said, a ghost of a laugh hidden in the word.

"Kidding, NSA, if you're listening," Foggy snorted. "But seriously, yeah. Gotta go bribe a cop. See you in forty five."

The line went dead, the absence of Foggy—strange name—a sealing of the airlock that had been temporarily venting the tension in the room. Matt stayed on the bed, pretending to ignore Iris for a whole minute. His fingers grabbing bunches of his sheets.

"Who was that?" Iris asked, deciding to end the pretense. She kept herself in the doorway, not daring to cross into his bedroom. A million memories of a different life—Iris walking past his open door, checking on him to make sure he was doing his homework like he was supposed to—stirred just at the back of her mind. She squashed them down.

Matt stood up, rigid and slow, and moved toward his closet. "You don't get to just wedge yourself back in my life, Iris." He disappeared, his clipped tone accompanied by the sound of rustling hangers.

She folded her arms, tears threatening to spill. She knew this wasn't exactly going to be an easy reunion. Knew he was going to be pissed at her. But thinking about it, preparing for it, was different than living it.

"Matty, we were kids…"

His head reappeared, fingers skillfully working up the buttons of his cheap dress shirt. "Iris, you and I both know the leaving wasn't the issue. It was the never coming back. Not for graduations. Holidays. Anything. You were a ghost, Iris. All I got were letters. Letters the sisters had to read to me." Every word is blunt and cutting. Pushing Iris closer and closer to the tears she was desperate not to shed.

If he'd seen me preparing letters in Braille, Dr. Manson would have known who I was sending it to, Iris screamed in her head. In her mind, she pulled Matty into an embrace and explained everything. How the only contact Dr. Manson had let her keep was with their old church. Despite everything, Dr. Manson claimed himself to be a devout catholic. He always brought Iris along to masses. He'd even let her have on connection to her old life. Her family's old parish. Anything she'd manageable to smuggle to Matty had been through their priest, Father Lantom. A rare bright spot. He'd been unable to strip her of her faith.

Iris looked down at her feet—at her stupid, impractical shoes. Her throat was impossibly dry. A lump formed from pent-up tears. She'd been desperate to do more, but….

In her mind's eye, all she could see were stern grey eyes, a hand ripping her cell phone out of her hands. "How did you get that number, Iris?"

As Matty stood there, all anger and betrayal, Iris couldn't help but scold herself. You should have tried harder to sneak around him. Done something else to bridge the silence…anything. If she'd done more, maybe her attempts to reach out would be successful. Guilt made her hold her tongue.

"Who's Foggy?" she asked again, mostly because she had little else to say. Anything else would be a lie. And they both knew how impossible it was to lie to Matty.

His hands found his hips. "My friend and business partner. We're starting our own firm."

"Your own firm? You're a lawyer?"

She half-expected him to say, "You would know that, if you'd bothered to keep in touch." If you'd done more….

He doesn't. Instead, he tries for something only slightly less cutting. "Why are you here? Shouldn't you be with Dr. Manson, giving a roman numeral analysis of passages of music or whatever it is you do?"

"He died," Iris's voice broke. She covered it up as a cough. "Stroke. A month ago. Figured that was my cue to move on."

That actually softened him. "Iris, I'm sorry—"

She didn't want to think of it. She'd been trying and trying to process. To work through the sludge of conflicting emotions. She'd been on autopilot since it happened, her hastily planned return to New York sufficient distraction from the conundrum that was her feelings over Dr. Manson's death.

"Like I said, it was my cue to move on. It is what it is."

His head was tilted just slightly towards her, his mouth set into a thin line. A little twitch in his jaw. She could feel the scrutiny. She was very conscious of her heart, hammering against her ribs.

"Iris, dad was lying. About having enough for rent this month," nine-year-old Matty's voice echoed in the back of her mind. "People's hearts beat differently when they lie. Their hearts always beat louder than their voices, if I listen hard enough. Did you know that?"

A time when he'd been comfortable enough with her to share his secrets, ones he'd kept even from their dad. A time of togetherness, of solidarity. A time long-gone. A time Dr. Manson had wanted to erase.

Silence followed. Uncomfortable, heavy. Iris's self-loathing eating away at her.

"I really should go," Matt finally said. They both knew he'd heard her lie, every rapid heartbeat of it. Their awareness was tangible, a strange shift in the silence. The anger had actually started to dribble away from Matt's voice. The tidal wave of emotion finally seemed to have run its course, allowing room for rationality. A single sped-up heartbeat had let him know there was more to all this. Their greatest secret, their tightest bond as siblings, might be the thing that brings them back from the edge.

"Right. I, um, have to get to my apartment anyway. Still have a ton of unpacking to do." She started backing towards the door. "I'll leave the éclairs on your coffee table. You can, um, take them to Foggy or...something." She turned on a heel, berating herself, a sick feeling in her stomach. She was ready to get out of the apartment, to get herself out of his life again, like he so clearly wanted.

"Iris."

She stopped on a dime, whirling around.

"Coffee? Tomorrow morning? Ethan's?"

The question hit her in tidal waves. A simple request, a baby step in the direction of healing, and yet….

Her whole body relaxed, overtaken with a shudder of relief. "Yes," she managed. She crossed to the coffee table, dropping the Ethan's bag. "Eight?"

"Right."

"I'll….see you tomorrow then," she adjusted her purse on her shoulder. Certainly not the tear-filled hug-fest forgiveness of a Hallmark movie, but coffee was better than nothing. "Give me your phone, I'll put my number in."

He held out his smartphone, unlocked and ready for input, and she quickly punched in her number.

"I….missed you," he muttered, and she finally allowed herself a tiny, sad smile as she handed him back his cell.

"Same, Baby Brother."

Iris had to give herself a minute before she entered her new apartment, not quite ready to face her new roommate again. Josephine Zhou, a cellist also employed by Iris's new boss, was nice enough, but she was a little….present for Iris's taste. She'd spent most of last night prying into questions that Iris wasn't ready to answer. At least not to a stranger. Thankfully, Josephine, like Iris, had a second job at nights, so at least Iris got a few hours of quiet.

"You're back!" Josephine grinned as soon as Iris walked for the door. The cellist was in a posture chair, her instrument out. Her pink robe and pajama pants were still on, black hair up in a messy bun, her glasses sliding down the brim of her nose. Almond shaped brown eyes alive and alert and shimmering, zeroed in on her music. "How were your errands?"

"Fine," Iris said, wiggling her finger, balancing her key ring. It made a satisfying little jingle. "I was actually going to grab my oboe and head into the conservatory for awhile, get used to my studio. Gotta be ready for my first lesson on Monday. Practice a little."

"Someone's dedicated," Josephine shrugged, already focusing back on her music. The cello started up again as Iris went to her bedroom, kicking off her heels and throwing herself onto the old twin. The mattress shuddered and creaked under her weight.

She'd had a queen, a comfortable one, in Dr. Manson's apartment. A soundproof room for practicing, where Iris spent most of her time. Manson had never practiced in the living room in his pajamas, never greeted her with an off-kilter little grin, welcoming her back. Though her apartment here was far tinier than anything she was used to, she'd never felt so free.

She'd never lived with someone else before. Doctor Manson made her commute to her college, insisted on her living with him even through her grad school. It had been a long time since she'd lived in tight quarters, but she'd never felt more free.

Iris decided to get out of her bed before her reflection could turn to self-pity. Replacing her heels with more conservative flats, she grabbed her oboe and music bag—the only things besides clothes she had bothered to use since arriving—and heading for the front door. Josephine tossed a half-wave to Iris on the way out.

The Aldridge Youth Conservatory—Iris's place of employment—was just a block down the street, so she didn't even have to hail a cab. She still wasn't used to seeing the tall brick structure again, at least not without getting hit by an in tense wave of nostalgia.

She had so many memories of late nights, doing her homework in the "recital hall" (she'd barely call it that now, given that she'd gotten to play in a lot more places since) after her lesson while she waited for the others in her carpool group to finish theirs. Mrs. Aldridge, the owner/operator's well-meaning but stern mother, always watched after the "carpool kids," the group of students enrolled in the conservatory that needed after lesson care and rides home. She was adamant on students doing their homework as soon as possible, something Iris's father was always happy about.

When Mrs. Aldridge finally stepped out, naively trusting the children to do their work as they were told, Iris always snuck up the employee's lounge, turning the TV to watch her dad's fights. She'd always kept the volume low, sitting in front of the old set on high alert, expecting Mrs. Aldridge to come back in at any minute.

Her fingers moved on autopilot as she typed in the entry code she'd kept locked in her memory.

The doors made a satisfying echo as Iris let herself in, the sounds of Saturday lessons bouncing through the halls. An alto sax, running smoothly through scales. A piano hectically producing a sonata. Fragments of melodies behind each door. Iris took a deep breath. Home.

Her studio was the third door on the left, second floor. It overlooked an alleyway, but she didn't really care all that much. The previous teacher's name had been hastily scratched off the door, Iris's name now in fresh, bold text.

Iris Murdock, Oboe and Clarinet. Her last name—her real one, the one Manson had made her change, the first thing she'd taken back after he'd died—looked so satisfying.

The small space had been scrubbed clean of its last inhabitant, nothing more than plain walls, an old piano, and a couple of music stands stashed in the corner. A desk, the wood worn out and stained, nestled right under the window. A bare corkboard, freckled with tiny microscopic punctures from pushpins. A half-emptied bookshelf with yellowing scores. It wasn't much, but it was enough. A permanent space and a stream of income that only required one extra job to support her. She tentatively tested the piano, pleased to find it satisfactorily in tune. Yes, this would do nicely.

Glaring at the blank wall, Iris fell into her desk chair, the old thing squeaking under her weight but holding steady. She had one piece of decoration so far, but she'd never hung up, an old laminated newspaper clipping she'd morbidly kept all these years, a token of her past she'd never parted with. She'd hid it under her bed back when she lived with Dr. Manson, who would have made her throw it away if he knew she still had it. "You shouldn't dwell on it, Iris. It's a part of your life you should move on from."

His raspy baritone of a voice. The smell of expensive cigars and wine. All of it came back in that memory.

Well, old man, she unclasped her leather music bag, carefully removing the old clipping. I've come running right back to the past you wanted me to forget. How do you like that?

Carl Crusher Creel vs. Battlin' Jack Murdock. The worlds glared at her, their solemn simplicity, the bitter tale they wove, making Iris shiver. She opened her desk drawer, gently lowering the article inside.

A phantom memory of her father in the front row at one of her recitals, his eye blackened and swollen. Dressed in a cheap suit, looking so strange and disjointed with nice clothes and a screwed up face. Matty, squirming around in his own "fancy" clothes. Iris, proud and smiling, curtseying in her frilly hand-me-down dress. That had been all she needed in the world. Her dad, her brother, and her first clarinet.

Her dad had been so proud of them, Matty and Iris.

She let out a shuddering breath, slamming the drawer shut. She only hoped she could fix at least some of what she'd ruined.

Ethan's Diner smelled like bacon grease and perfectly brewed coffee at all hours of the day. The little bell on the door always jangled merrily when a new customer walked in. The whole place always looked like a garage sale vomited all over the walls. Novelty decor—proudly displaying everything from framed vintage Captain America comic books, to signed Star Trek posters, to local celebrities enjoying a meal in the red plastic booths.

"Your shift doesn't start 'til well into tonight, Sweetie."

Iris smiled as she approached the counter, settling into one of the stools. "Actually here to meet my brother for breakfast, Andy."

Andy took a coffee cup from behind the counter, setting it before Iris and pouring from the steaming pot she was carrying. Iris silently watched the older woman scolding Matty and Iris for the bubble blowing contests they had with their chocolate milk, all with a smile on her deeply tanned face.

Iris had been thankful for her connection with Andy when she'd been searching for another job. Hell, she wouldn't be here without her connections at Aldridge. Dr. Manson would be livid at the bridges he'd wanted her to burn led her right back to the city he'd never wanted her to return to.

"Matthew comes in every now and again. Brings his friend. Nice young men, both of them."

"Foggy, right?" Iris grabbed the sugar container, sprinkling a generous amount into the thick black liquid.

"You've met him?" Andy leaned across the counter.

Iris thought back to yesterday morning, of the good-natured voice on the other line. "In a manner a speaking…."

"Waitress!" a man from the nearest booth called, holding up his coffee cup. "More please."

"When you get here tonight, I'm pawning all the difficult ones off to you," Andy winked.

"Fair enough," Iris took a slow sip of coffee. "You really helped me out giving me a job, it's the least I could do."

As Andy scurried off, the bell above the door let out its little jingle. Matt was there, cane leading his steps. Iris stiffened, suddenly a flustered mess. The next reaction was childhood instinct. She hoped off the chair, calling his name. He paused mid-step. The back of her hand touched his. He found her elbow, though he was hesitant to reach for her. He ultimately decided to accept the gesture, the familiar whole thing making her eleven years old again. At least for a moment.

"I'm glad you came," she managed, as they began walking towards the counter.

"Yeah," was all she got. It was better than nothing.

Iris almost preferred the tense air of his apartment. The rash emotions of earlier were far preferable to the sheer...awkwardness of their current silence.

"Matthew," Andy came right up to the siblings as soon as they were seated. "Good to see you again."

Bless you, Andy, Iris inwardly breathed. Like she could read Iris's mind, the older woman kept talking.

"How're things with Murdock and Nelson? Word's been floating around the neighborhood about it."

"Nelson and Murdock," Matty gently corrected, endearing smile on his face as his fingers searched for the cup Andy had set before him. "And, we're slowly but surely finding our footing. We have a client now."

"You found your first client?" Iris inserted herself.

For a half second, Matty's whole body rippled at her voice, posture guarded and wary. The hand not holding his coffee cup was balled into a fist. But one breath and he relaxed into his reply, "Yes."

"Jack would be proud of the two of you. Matty with his own firm, and Iris returning to Aldridge to teach. You little ones aren't so little anymore," Andy smiled, the wrinkles around her eyes sharpening. She grabbed the pencil stuck into her grey-streak bun, scribbling down something on her order pad. "Tell you what, you two. I'll put in a ticket for your old usuals. For old time's sake."

"Usual..." Iris started, but she was asking the question to Andy's retreating back.

"You're teaching at Aldridge now?" Matt's question stunned her. She drummed her fingers on the counter, careful with her next words. There was so much she wanted to say, to explain. Much more than could be said over coffee at an old haunt.

"Yes. Mr. Aldridge was glad when I got back in touch. To have an old student willing to return as a teacher. I'm actually going to be working here a few nights a week too, just to pay the bills. It'll feel good to give back to the places that gave so much to us growing up, you know?"

Matt looked like he was going to say something, a ghost of a frown lingering beneath the surface of his features.

"Foggy. Foggy. Foggy."

The automated voice from Matt's phone startled them both, incessantly droning the name of Matt's business partner.

"I should..."

Iris coughed a bit. "Yeah. Yes, of course." Stop talking. "Go ahead."

Matt dug his mobile out of his pocket. "Fog?" There was a beat, Matt's expression twisting beneath his glasses. "She was what?" More talking, the few words Iris could make out frantic and breathless. Iris stared into the depths of her coffee, doing her best not to listen. "Okay, okay. Yeah, I'll head over."

He hung up, already standing. "That call was about our client. I need to get to the precinct." He started digging around in his suit jacket, presumably looking for money.

"Matt, I got it," Iris said. "Do what you gotta do."

"No, I can..." It was half of an argument, one he wasn't really willing to fight. Abandoning the other half of the sentence, he presented his wallet, fingers deftly running over his stash of bills. The two fives he presented were folded differently than the three ones he tossed in with them. His own way of differentiating. He was headed for the door before Iris could get a word in. All she could do was stare at the money.

Andy eventually brought out the orders, surprised by Matt's absence. The two plates piled with raisin toast, oatmeal, and bacon and the two tall glasses of chocolate milk were a little too much. Those two little kids, sitting on their knees in the bar stools and blowing bubbles in their milk, were long gone.

Iris tapped her finger on the side of her cool glass of milk, absently stirring it with the straw. Dr. Manson had succeeded in erasing that child. And, as Iris played over every agonizingly awkward second her "reunion" with Matty, she wondered if the old man had actually managed to destroy the girl Iris Murdock had been beyond repair.

Most of Iris's shift that night involved her and Andy watching the heavy rain trickle down the windows of Ethan's, only really having to deal with handfuls of patrons at a time. A set of twenty-something's—on the tail end of their "night on the town"—were currently in Iris's care. They weren't hard to deal with, just wanting a steady stream of coffee and, of course, Ethan's twenty-four-hour breakfast menu.

"….been given a month's leave. For counseling and all that." Iris expected the conversation to stop when she got to the table, but the speaker kept going as Iris topped off the group's drinks. "Said it was some man in a black mask that set them all free."

"Those rumors," one of the others snorted. "Probably just some whack job inspired by all this hero worship we got going on after The Incident. I don't know, what's your take?"

Iris didn't realize right away she'd been addressed.

"I, uh, just moved back to the city. I haven't really heard anything about a masked guy."

"Just as well," one of the other women shrugged. "Most people who fight in the mask aren't usually on your side. Only reason he spites other criminals is probably to benefit himself."

"Oh, cause you all are such experts," the first speaker said.

Iris took her cue to leave, scurrying back to Andy at the counter.

"Hearing more and more about that masked guy lately," the older woman said, lowly enough so the table couldn't here. She kept her eyes on the counter, the circular motion of the rag she was using to clean it.

"What have you heard about him?" Iris asked.

Andy paused her work, batting away a loose strand of greying hair. "Just that if he's as tough as they say he is, let's hope he's actually the good Samaritan some people want to make him. A man like that with the wrong agenda…."

The bell jingled, making Iris jump. Andy offered her a sympathetic smile. "Go take care of them, Honey. You'll be alright."

At the end of the night, after lock up, Andy offered a ride home. Iris took her up on the offer.

At first, she thought it was her alarm, telling her to get up for her first lesson at Aldridge. The one she'd set as a precaution. Just in case she was so tired from her first night at the diner that she didn't get up for a two-thirty after-school lesson. But it wasn't her alarm. It was her ringtone. Gustav Holst's "Jupiter" paired with an incessant vibration that didn't quite line up with the song's meter.

"Yeah. Hi," Iris slurred into the receiver, not fully roused yet.

"Iris."

Matt's voice on the other line finished the job of bringing her to consciousness. She sat up in bed, springs squealing beneath her sudden shift of weight. "Matt. Hey," she found herself over analyzing her voice. Too excited? Too eager? Maybe he'd take it as forced….

"Do you have lunch plans?"

She instantly thought of her empty fridge. Of the mounds of take-out boxes in the trash that told Iris Josephine wasn't too much of a cook. She and Iris had that in common, at least. "No. None. My first lesson isn't until later in the afternoon, so…"

"Good. So…our client I was telling you about. She's making us lunch as a thank you. Do you…maybe, want to join us at the office?"

His office. Nelson and Murdock. Finally putting a face to the name that kept chirping from his phone. Another step in the right direction, another invitation to another part of his life. An attempt to move beyond the unspoken questions and monosyllabic answers. She'd take any step in the right direction.

"Yes. I would love that. Let me get a pen and write down your address."

Iris ran into the kitchen, shuffling around the piles of sheet music, mail, and newspapers to try and find her notepad. She eventually found a blank sheet of paper right under the morning's copy of the New York Bulletin. She made slight note of the headline, Union Allied Corruption Scandal, making a mental note to read it later, before she started scribbling down Matt's business address.

Nelson and Murdock was located in a fairly-standard brownstone office building a short cab ride from Iris's apartment. It was right next to a financial office, the door decorated with a paper sign. Sharpie spelled out the firm's name, the open door revealing fold-out chairs and table set for four. Unpacked boxes and un-placed furniture crowed the whole room. Despite the wide-open, wholly unfinished nature of the space, Iris found herself unable to just waltz in, so she gently wrapped her hand on the back of the door. "Hello?"

A stranger emerged from one of the offices, and Iris instantly guessed this was Foggy. If anyone could pull off the Moniker, it was this guy. Shorter and fuller than the Murdock half of the outfit, Nelson had an open and honest face. He was baby faced, with rounder features and fuller lips, but there was a sharpness to his blue eyes Iris couldn't miss.

"Hi," Iris adjusted the strap of her purse, searching for just what to say. She briefly wondered if Matt had said anything to Foggy about her. Or, if he had talked about her, what he would say. "Matt invited me. I…"

"Hey, Iris. I see you've already met Foggy Nelson." She turned around to find mind in the doorway of the other office. "Glad you found us."

Matt still carried with him a cloud of tension, but she was beginning to notice every time they met it was a thinner and thinner tension. She could work with that. "Yeah. It's actually not too far from my place."

She looked around, trying to find a compliment hidden somewhere in the unpacked boxes, sharpie door sign, and fold out table. It was honestly a sort of endearing effort, the whole thing clearly a labor of love, but she wasn't sure if "charmingly disorganized" was the way Nelson or Murdock would want to hear their place described. Thankfully, she didn't have to worry about that for too long.

"You know," Foggy took the liberty on deciding how to break the ice. Cuttingly, with a really sharp pick. "Now that I know your so called 'Unexpected Girl' from yesterday, Graduation Girl, and Sister-We-Don't-Discuss are all one in the same, two of those stories just got a whole lot less zesty." Iris didn't miss the accusations hidden in his humor.

And so that is how Matt had described her, how he'd talked of her absence with others. Sister-Who-We-Don't-Discuss.

It took her a minute to figure out where "Graduation Girl" had come from, but Iris remembered a Columbia Law graduation announcement finding its way to Dr. Manson's apartment ages ago. By some miracle, she'd swiped it before the old man could see it. She'd been careful, planning her whole escape in secret. A solid alibi. She'd been in the crowd, ready to find him, ready to thank him for this last-ditch effort to reach her, for the small bit of evidence he hadn't given up on reconciliation. But then Dr. Manson's hand on her arm, leading her out of the crowd while the proctor was still in the 'C' surnames. She hadn't even gotten a glimpse of Matty that day. And as far as he knew, his last attempt had gone ignored. She'd failed him one last time.

She'd spent so many sleepless nice since then, thinking of ways she could have been more careful, hidden her plans from Manson.

"Here we are! I…oh, hi."

The new voice was female, and Iris relished the interruption. A petite blonde, simply but elegant dressed, bearing a covered dish. Her smile dropped a bit when she saw Iris, but it was more confusion than distaste. Iris could work with confusion.

"She's spotted the sister," Foggy offered, coaxing a small smile on Matt's face.

"I think I gathered that. Karen, this is my older sister, Iris Manson. Iris, this is Karen Page."

He'd said sister, a tiny victory, but Iris nearly hit the ceiling when he said "Iris Manson."

"Murdock," the name tumbled quickly out of her lips, instantly quelling the bad taste just hearing the name Manson uttered left in her mouth. "I, uh, legally changed my name back to Murdock after my adopted father…" She stopped there, not really wanting to expound on it. It was still so…wrong to say "adopted father." Doctor Manson had never let her call her anything familial. It was "Doctor Manson" or "Sir."

"Do you need help with that, Miss Page?" Iris attempted to change the subject, nodding to the dish. Without asking, Iris relieved the other woman of the warm glassware. Poor Karen was too stunned by the sudden tension to protest. Iris felt Matty's energy fully focused on her, and she tried her best to pretend she didn't notice as she set the dish in the middle of the table.

"Smell's delicious," Iris offered, hoping to give everyone an out, a way to forget the rapidly souring atmosphere.

Karen picked up from there. "Well, it's not much in the way of repayment," Karen removed the lid, satisfying wisps of steam floating into the air. A beautifully made lasagna greeted them all, the heavenly aroma Iris had commented on hitting them all full force.

Matt and Foggy found their seats. Iris took the cue, still actively pretending nothing had just happened.

"But, it is my grandmother's secret recipe," Karen picked up a spatula, carefully sectioning off the meal. "She made me promise only to serve it to my future husband." Iris decided right then and there she liked Karen and her ability to expertly quell tension, to fill pregnant silences. The line coaxed a chuckle from both Matt and Foggy. "You know it's, like, filled with virtue or something."

"I thought I detected a whiff of virtue in there," the temporary shifting of Matt's focus was the most blissful few seconds Iris had experienced in awhile.

"Not that I'm complaining," Foggy said as Karen dropped his portion onto his plate, "but shouldn't you be thanking the nut in the mask?"

"Nut in the mask?" Iris asked. Her conversation with Andy stirred afresh in her mind.

Karen paused for a moment, gaze shifting between both of her lawyers, before she finally spoke. "I…uh, well, I stumbled across some information I shouldn't have at work. It's what got me in trouble, why these two stepped in to help me. Last night I would have been killed if a man in a black mask hadn't stepped in."

"Shit," Iris whispered, the expletive her automatic reflex. Karen actually laughed a little at it.

"Yes. Well, I'm just glad he was there." She turned back to Foggy. "And, for the record, he's not a 'nut.' A little weird maybe, but…"

"We're just glad you're okay," Matt cut her off, offering a small half-smile.

"Well," Karen finally dished out his portion, "if it weren't for you too, I'd still be in that cell."

Matt shrugged. "Job's easy when your client's innocent. All you did was tell the truth."

"Yeah, but you listened."

What followed was another silence, but this was far more preferable. Filled with gratitude, relief. Matt took the plunge into lasagna, everyone else following suit.

"And don't get us wrong," Foggy said after his first bite. He wagged his knife to emphasize his next point, "We're still gonna bill you. As soon as we…figure out how to make bills."

Iris couldn't hold back her snort.

"About that," Karen set down her silverware. "I noticed you two could use a little help around here. And I do owe you. I could clean the place up a bit."

"Is this place messy?" Matt chuckled.

"Our firm is very prestigious and discerning, Miss Page." Foggy really liked to gesture with that knife. "Do you have any prior experience...hiding electrical chords up in ceiling tiles."

"No. But…uh…I'll work for free."

"Yeah. You're hired," Matt nodded, half-smile now a full grin.

"Just got hired!" Foggy agreed.

The rest of the meal was….actually pleasant. Iris even contributed to conversation, and though everyone was wary to her at first, Karen's presence did wonders to lighten the mood. Iris wished she'd met Nelson and Murdock's first client far sooner. Maybe brought her to Matt's apartment from the get-go….

Iris had accepted the fact that her childhood here was gone, but she was starting to see hope for a new life….

Iris's improved mood carried through her first afternoon and evening of teaching. She had mostly beginner clarinet students, all of whom showed enthusiasm for their instruments, and two promising intermediate oboists. Most of her first lessons involved assessing skills and learning styles and selecting rep. A whirlwind blew her work quickly by, landing her right at the end of her last lesson.

By the time Iris dismissed her final student, one of the oboists, the sun was long gone and the carpool children, now watched over by a younger woman Iris didn't recognize, were all lining up to head home. Her new pupils all offered their own versions of, "Goodbye, Ms. Murdock!" as she walked past the group, letting herself out into the night.

Another graveyard at Ethan's awaited her. Cab fare wasn't worth it, not when walk was short kept her head down and her pace steady, one hand in her purse with fingers curled around the tiny pocket-knife she carried. She figured she could handle the trek without incident. She was wrong.

Iris registered the commotion only a fraction of a second before she was grabbed from behind, a hand wrenching hers free from her purse. Something cold landed against her throat. A blade. "Drop the knife. Use it on me or scream, and I slit your throat. Keep still, and you live to never talk about this. Ever. Deal?" Horrible breath, voice laden with a Russian accent. Her knife clattered to the pavement. Iris let out a shuddering breath in response as she finally registered the scene she'd stumbled on.

Wrong place, wrong time.

Two vans parked right on the curb just a block from Ethan's, two blocks beyond her apartment building.

A group of men had wrestled someone to the ground, repeatedly kicking their victim's prone form. Groans, pleas for mercy, went up pathetically into the night. Then Iris saw someone break from the pack. A tall, sneering man who leered into the back window of the victim's vehicle. The foreboding stranger threw open the back door of the van, plucking a struggling little boy from inside.

"No," Iris gasped.

Her fists wanted to fly. All she could think about was how good it would feel to land a punch to this guys throat. But…there was the matter of the blade digging into her skin. Of the fact that she wasn't sure she could handle all these guys at once. Secret nights when she told Doctor Manson she was practicing, coached by a friend in a local gym, couldn't really prep her for all this.

The knife pressed itself a bit deeper into the skin. "I remember telling you to shut it."

"Daddy!" the kid wailed, struggling against his captor's grip.

The man on the ground registered it, his frantic please devolving into cries of, "Not my son!"

Iris wanted to throw up. A shuddering breath, the beginning of a pent up sob, wracked through her body.

"This is bigger than you, girl," her captor said into her ear. "Try to be the hero, say anything, and we will find you." The hilt of his dagger found her head and the world went fuzzy for a terrifying moment. Her knees hit the pavement, unforgiving asphalt tearing through the tights she was wearing.

Shouts and the squealing of tires rattled on the edge of her perception. Then silence, the city snapping back into focus around her, and the soft moans of the poor man on the ground just a few feet away. Iris braced against vertigo, swiping up her pocket knife and hopping to her feet. The contents of her purse were spilled all over the street, but she spotted her wallet among the wreckage. "This is bigger than you girl."

"You're bleeding."

"Shit!" Iris swore, pure instinct kicking in. Instinct that hadn't been able to awake when she'd been ambushed. Her fist found a jaw in a satisfying uppercut.

A startled yelp, flailing limbs, and Iris found herself face to face with a black mask. No eye holes, just a cowl covering the entire upper half of the man's face. Her knuckles were screaming from their contact with his jaw, but he was staring dead-on, the only evidence of Iris's defense a tiny bit of trickling blood.

"If he's as good as they say he is, let's hope he's actually the good Samaritan some people want to make him. A man like that with the wrong agenda…"

Bluff, Iris told herself, bluff like hell.

"My dad was a boxer," Iris warned, very proud of the bite in her voice. She sounded delightfully ballsy. Despite her heart straining against her ribs to free itself from her chest. "And my adopted father was an asshole and hated that my dad was a boxer. I learned to throw a punch just to spite the dick. And I really wanted to spite him. I'm not afraid of you."

"You pack a decent punch," The Mask agreed. "But you're lying. You don't have to be afraid, though, not of me." He tensed, head whipping to the side as if he heard something in the distance. "I'm losing my window. I've got to go."

"Go where?"

His voice was stirring recognition. And she could tell he was trying to hide it from her, keeping his distance. Head ducked so he could hide his features from her.

"To get back the kid."

"Let's hope he's the Good Samaritan they say he is…"

"Who the hell are you?"

"The father. He'll need your help. You got a access to a med kit?"

He shuffled back another step from her. Iris shivered, hands balling into fists.

"Holy shit," she gasped, the fragmented puzzle slipping into place.

"Iris, dad popped his stiches. I can…smell it," a nine-year-old Matty whispered to her, yawning loudly as she tucked him in. "You should go check on him."

Iris shivered, still not used to this new development. Ever since that innocent, "Iris, can I tell you a secret?" the little things Matty would tell her, the things that wandered into his perception, had gotten progressively….stranger.

"Go to sleep, Matty. I'll go check on him."

She felt something warm just above her eyebrow. She raised her fingers, a wicked sting exploding under her touch. She drew her hand away specked in her own blood. Just like he'd said. She was bleeding.

"Holy shit," Iris said again, more to herself than anything, staring at his tense form. His balled fists and pulsing muscles. How had it gone from the occasional bouts of impressive perception to….this….

"Do you have a med kit?" The Mask repeated.

"I do. I'll handle it. I was always better at suturing than you."

That hit him harder than her uppercut. He tensed, mouth opening and closing as words failed him. For the first time since coming back to Hell's kitchen, Iris wasn't at a loss for what to do or say around him.

"Save the kid," she told him. "You're the one talking about your window."

"I meant what I said. That was a good punch." And he took off.

Waaaay longer than I meant to make it, but hey.

Anyway, until the next update!

-Moonlit.