Tranquility

Finch straightened their back, letting their arms fall to their lap. 'Things' was too broad - maybe specifying would get the gears grinding.

Finch heaved themself out of bed, leaving the springy sponge to slowly regain its form. The sock was too long and draped over the foot of Finch's improvised bed. They grabbed a shard of graphite and twirled it between their fingers, not noticing or caring for the shiny, ashy residue rubbing off on their skin. Finch jotted some notes, listing materials like nails and pins and planks - things that would be far too heavy for a single pigeon or a lone borrower to carry. In the quantity Finch needed, at least. Mulch mentioned saddlebags, didn't she? Three birds might get the job done. Finch crossed their arms, idly toying with the graphite. Finch knew where to find all those materials, but the scope of the journey was deterrent enough. Finch glanced at the very top of the sticky note.

• make elevators and go dumpster diving

Finch groaned. They tossed the graphite shard onto the wine cork that was their bedside table, its surface littered with other miscellanea. The graphite rolled off and clattered to the floor. Finch retrieved it with an exasperated huff.

One week was not enough time to construct elevators and also collect unrelated building materials. Mulch and her team were counting on Finch. There was hardly a choice.

First things first: breakfast. Troubles were far less troubling on a full stomach.

Finch hobbled into their overalls and sat on the bulbous pincushion to pull on their shoes, mindful of the sharp picks cobbled onto the toe of each boot. Finch removed their tool belt from the repurposed coat hanger, leaving the bent nail on its own hook until their belt was fastened. Finch wound the nail's elastic tether around their forearm and then secured the nail itself, feeding its pointy end through the tool loop from below to sit on their left hip. Finch transferred the couple of rubber coils around the nail's V-shaped elbow. Next, Finch grasped their sword currently sticking up from the pincushion. It didn't make a sound as Finch wrapped their left hand around its bright red pommel and pulled, but Finch heard the majestic shing! in their head. Finch held it aloft like a knight, then sheathed it in the only other belt loop on their right side. Finch slung their borrowing bag across their back and shouldered past the large, rusted blue and brown hinge that was their front door.

Lazily vaulting cross-beams, Finch trekked toward the hatch below the island cupboard. Finch clambered up the footholds, digging their picks in, and opened the trapdoor. Finch slid the rough-hewn wood panel aside. Hopping up to perch on the cusp of the tunnel, Finch listened. They heard the human shuffling about before they came up here, but now, he was quiet. Finch pulled a face. Even before the trap incident, Finch despised when he did that - like he was waiting for them. That wasn't possible, of course: humans didn't have senses like that. Not regular humans, anyway - but heroes were popping up with all sorts of powers these days. Finch wondered where all the borrowers with superpowers were hiding. Strength, flight, telekinesis - imagine the possibilities. Imagine the good those borrowers could do.

Finch lugged the trapdoor by the staple Finch had hammered into it, giving the wood block a tiny handle. Slotting the block into place over the hole in the cupboard floor, Finch stood up and began hunting for something to eat.

The morning sun slipping through the cracks between the doors was plenty of light for Finch's dilated pupils. Even without, Finch was confident in their ability to navigate the shelves in total darkness. Matt liked to keep everything in their spots. The teabags, the crackers, the cups - it all had its proper place. Finch had developed a habit of nudging wayward items into their dust-free outlines. Not for the human's sake, obviously. Obviously not.

Finch haltered mid-step, abruptly remembering the time they handed the human a teabag. At the time, as they dared lean so close to those huge, searching fingers, Finch had fretted what it would feel like to be in the herbs' place.

Well, Finch needn't fret anymore!

Sometimes, Finch felt the ghost of that grip: when something pressed into their side - their own bag, a ladder wrung - but the worst was when the sensation came unprompted. Just their brain playing tricks on them. Finch reached for the sewing pin at their hip whenever they lost their nerve. They found that it helped.

Finch scaled the hinges of the nearest cabinet door, using their remaining nail to anchor at each level. They snagged the bent nail over the second shelf and pushed off with their foot. Propping their right elbow on the shelf, Finch pulled their body up. Immediately, their shoulder ached in protest. Finch grunted softly as they hoisted themself over, grimacing as their tools clattered against the wood. Finch borrowed a few moments to recover, seated on their one foot. Finch coiled their rubber climbing tether and holstered the attached nail to their toolbelt. Finch rolled their rotator cuff. They massaged the inflamed area with a thumb. Finch was too hard on their shoulder yesterday; the trip down to the street and then scaling that fire escape had done a number on Finch.

Of course Finch had to take it easy when they actually needed to do a ton of climbing.

Finch ventured deeper within the cupboard, assessing their options. Nothing to borrow that wasn't noisy, and the human hadn't left the apartment yet.

The counter, it was.

Descending was easier on Finch's injury; they did it one-handed. They stepped off the brass hinge, light-footed. There was a spot on the bottom shelf's baseboard that had worn away, and with a little chipping and sanding, was now large enough for Finch to slip through and bypass the cupboard door completely.

On the kitchen floor, Finch walked toward the end of the island. They peeked around the corner at the round dining table. Finch leaned a little further out and held their breath. In the chair closest to the window sat the human. He appeared deeply focused on the tabletop, whose glass surface was almost entirely blocked by his work. A cup of tea peeked over the edge. The few bare spots of glass allowed shafts of sunlight to pass through like a cloudy sky.

Finch hadn't ventured into the same room as him - as Matt - since the glue incident. Lightning flashed behind Finch's eyes; a horned silhouette super-imposed the tall dining table and Finch flinched. They released a shaky exhale and backed away.

Finch smelt toast the moment their nose met the air. Finch trotted toward the far wall. Using the crevices carved into its wooden frame, Finch grappled their way up the side of the counter, relying on their left arm to do all the heavy lifting. Cresting the countertop, Finch honed in on the breadcrumbs in front of the toaster. They glanced the human's way. Papers were sprawled across the glass tabletop and a closed laptop took up the last bit of space. The human's large hands scrawled over the textured pages, flipping and back-tracking along lines of raised dots. Finch's curiosity arose, but hunger put it in its place. Between Finch and the human, Finch spotted a plate absolutely loaded with crumbs sitting on the island countertop. Finch wasn't interested.

Finch crept toward the toaster

Matt cleared his throat. Finch paused mid-stride. Matt lifted his mug, and Finch resumed. They stepped quietly, mindful not to nick their boots' picks on the smooth countertop. They crouched and slung their bag over their thigh, unbuttoning the flap. Finch munched on the first crumb, a hunk of crust bigger than both fists. They stored the others into their bag, shuffling forward as they reached for another. The sound of sifting pages was louder than Finch's activities.

Or so they thought.

The papers stopped. Finch also stopped, arm outstretched for another crumb.

To the open room, Matt said, "You know I know you're there, right?"

Finch was glad to still be chewing; there was no doubt Finch would've hacked the toast right back up.

Finch's heart plummeted to their ankles and they shot upright, fumbling to stow the rest of breakfast and shut their bag. One hand flew to the pommel of their sewing pin sword. Finch forced down their last bite.

Matt hadn't raised his head, hadn't even raised his voice. He said it so casually. He could be talking to himself, his phone - anybody but Finch.

Finch inched sideways, quiet as a mouse.

Matt looked up. Finch knew - knew - that he could not see them. And yet, he precisely captured Finch dead centre of his unfocused gaze. 'Frozen in headlights' may be an exhausted adage, but there was no better descriptor for how Finch felt. Finch had stared down charging taxis and lumbering buses: here and now, being known, summoned the exact same spike of adrenaline that compelled a borrower to freeze beneath an undercarriage or leap to avoid the tires.

It was the same fear that struck Finch the night before - struck as fierce and fast as lighting when that shrouded figure towered over them, crushing gravel beneath its tremourous strides.

On the counter, Finch had gone completely motionless. Finch went weak at the knees. They barely breathed. Their face wrung rapidly into a variety of expressions, all some flavour of frazzled or afraid - even frustrated. How did he know? How? It was the same question that nagged Finch when they got themself stuck in that stupid trap. How could he possibly know?

No. Mm-mm. Fuck that. Finch scurried toward the ladder, disregarding any notion of discretion as their boots cracked on the countertop. That Devil had shaken Finch's nerves aplenty; one human knowing was two too many by any sane borrower's standards. Avoiding the apartment for a few days hadn't changed a thing: Finch became predictable. Finch was expected.

Yesterday, Finch told Mulch they wanted to stick around. Too much work to leave, Finch had claimed.

Finch didn't give a damn about the work anymore. Fuck the plumbing. He knew-!

Finch went over exit routes as they dropped onto their knees to begin the climb down. Stupid, stupid - Finch should have left. They pushed too far, got too comfortable. Finch should have ran the moment Matt let them go and never turned back.

Mulch had offered them a place to stay. Finch hoped that still stood. Finch could leave right now; they had food. They didn't leave anything important behi-

That voice came again, piercing the thick atmosphere of the apartment to call out, "Wait! I'm sorry! I'm sorry. Please, don't run."

Finch slowed to a stop, one leg hanging over the edge. Finch counted to a looong three and convinced themself to look over.

The human hadn't budged except to lower his head. Finch lazered in on the motion of interlocked hands atop loose papers. From so far, Finch could make out the bruises and colourful bandages over his knuckles. They paired well with the smattering of bruises on his face - and another patch of purple peeking beneath his long sleeve. Finch couldn't help but ponder where he got those. A rough tumble? Mugged? And in the shadows drawn by the morning sun behind him, Finch couldn't help noticing the dark crescents under his eyes.

Not that Finch cared.

Finch squinted, taking note of the consternation all over the human's swollen face. A bandage decorated with a cartoon character did comically little for the laceration on his chin. The bandage twitched as Matt searched for something else to say. Finch squinted harder. Was that Scooby-Doo?

Finch swiveled around and took a seat on the edge of the countertop. They'd just finished berating themself for being stupid and reckless, and here they were - entertaining the human that caught them. The human who set those traps, who held Finch in the same rough hands that were covered in cuts and calluses - who had apologized in earnest and sent Finch on their way with a bottle cap of the sweetest drink Finch had tasted, no strings attached. Who didn't chase Finch down or try to find their home; who had since knocked it off with the traps. Who was stillapologizing, and truth be told, was not nearly as intimidating wearing all those kids' bandages.

Finch leaned forward, elbows on their knees. They peered at the ground far below their dangling boots, unbothered by the promised fall. Memories of flying over the city replayed in Finch's mind. The fear, and the breathless wonder. Keyra was right about that: it wasn't the height that made it terrifying. Finch had tight-walked over power cables and crawled hand-over-hand across lines of laundry, had climbed to the very top of TV antennas to get their bearings. Heights weren't the problem - it was the ripping away of control. The absence of freedom; of being at the behest of another's will, be that bird or man or circumstance. Knowing there was nothing that would change it. Trapped. Nowhere to run.

Finch got good at running. It was second nature - more accurately, first nature. The fact that Finch stayed this long was a miracle on its own. Maybe they were tired of it. Maybe, this time, Finch wanted to fight to stay. They had all the reason in the world to run, all the instincts screaming at them. Finch was prepared to leave, right then and there.

But Finch chose to stay. They chose to sit. They chose to hear the human out.

Finch looked at the table. They appraised said human, whose split lip had thinned into a grim line. Seemed he never found what he wanted to say.

Finch opened their mouth and took a breath. The human twitched, casting his face aside and exposing an ear. The wide bruise over his cheek stopped short of his sideburn.

To the open room, Finch said, "Did you mean it?"

Matt straightened in his chair. He turned in Finch's direction - without that unsettling awareness of their exact location, giving Finch the much-needed impression that it was a fluke. Matt said, "Yes. I'm sorry. I didn't- I'm sorry that I scared you."

Finch exhaled sharply. Still apologizing. They explained, "No. Before. You said you didn't care about the borrowing. About me living here. Did you mean it?"

Matt didn't hesitate: "Of course. I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it. As long as you clean up afterwards, I really don't mind. Actually, I-"

Louder, Finch said, "What do I have other than your word?" Finch was surprised that Matt let them cut him off. Finch faced the human, twisting their body and propping one knee on the countertop as they continued: "I just have to trust you, right? Do you know how hard that is? I'm supposed to just- just believe you? How am I supposed to take your word for it? That you won't catch me again? Or tell anyone else! Do you know how big a risk that is for me?" Finch inhaled. Then, they scoffed, half-laughing as they declared, "I mean, fuck! I'm not even supposed to be talking to you. I can't-" Finch swept a trembling hand over their headband and bronze-coloured locks. They clasped the nape of their neck, squashing a messy hunk of hair. At the table, Matt waited in solemn silence. Finch ballooned their cheeks with a harsh exhale. Under their breath, only for themself to hear, Finch mumbled, "Safer to leave. Better off away from here."

Matt spoke up, then. Twiddling his thumbs, unseeing gaze directed at the table, he said, "I can give you more than just my word. I was actually going to bring it up, but... I may have something. It's... a written agreement between the two of us that we both sign. We each make clauses, and the other has to follow those terms or-" Uncertain, Matt cinched one eye and opened his hands, shrugging them before bringing them together again. "Or we break the agreement." He gestured shortly with his joined hands. "In, uh, the 'human' world, typically, there are legal repercussions. Typically. Supposed to be. But us, we can't exactly enforce that. We'd only be working with an honour system... which isn't much more than my word, but I thought it might help. It's something. Maybe not enough, but I want to prove to you that I do mean it. I've made some... big mistakes. And I'm sorry for that. I never meant to scare you off."

Matt ended there, giving Finch ample opportunity to respond. Finch didn't - not right away. They weren't done processing his words. His offer to stay. All of Finch's thoughts were in a jumble. Did he- well, he claimed he did, over and over. Claimed he wanted to prove it. What was Finch supposed to think of that? How were they supposed to answer that? Say 'yes' to placate him? Say 'yes' because he might be telling the truth? Would a 'no' provoke him? Finch bent forward, burying their face in their hands. They dragged their hands down, exposing their eyes to check that the human hadn't moved. Cupping the lower half of their face, Finch breathed in a deep, calming manner. What did the human get out of this? Finch's trust? Not a chance. So, what, his own peace of mind?

Most importantly, what did Finch get out of this? He said as much, himself: this 'agreement' wasn't worth more than his word. Only difference, this time, was it being on paper. Hardly binding. Was this a bid to get Finch's guard down? Didn't feel like getting stabbed again?

For reasons annoyingly within their understanding, Finch didn't quite believe that.

These weeks - going on two months, now - living under Matt's floorboards, the human hadn't shown so much as a single mean tendency. To his friends on the phone, he was pleasant; at worst, tired and sarcastic. He visited his neighbours. He checked on the elderly woman downstairs whom Finch borrowed sewing supplies from. He greeted or joked when he crossed paths with his fellow tenants, knowing each by name with friendly familiarity. Given all that Finch had seen or heard, there was every indication that Matt was a nice person. Kind, even.

Did that kindness extend to borrowers?

In spite of their gut reaction, Finch was tempted to give a tentative 'yes'.

So, they did.

"If I agree to this," Finch said at last, lowering their hands while keeping their palms pressed together, "I can make my own terms."

"Of course," Matt replied.

Finch interlaced all but both their index fingers, pointing them in tandem at the human. "And you agree to follow them."

His response was an unquestioning, "Yes."

Finch thought a little longer, curling their last two digits and accidentally mimicking Matt's body language. Finch negotiated, "And if you break them, I leave. And you don't stop me."

Matt said, "You're always free to go, if that's what you really want. But yes. We will add that as a clause."

Finch thought some more. They brought their knuckles up and fidgeted, knocking their chin back-and-forth over the bony bumps of their fingers.

Finch came to a decision.

"Alright," they decreed. "On the condition you don't do anything to me. Where is this agreement?"

"I haven't written it yet," Matt informed them. There was no mistaking the ease that had absolved his demeanour. Finch purposefully averted their gaze. Matt said, "We need to brainstorm our terms. I mean, you do. I don't have many, and they're just small things. I don't expect anything outrageous on your end, but we can discuss the details in the future."

More meetings. Of course.

"The usual," Finch said, separating their hands to make a list on one. Finch tapped each finger for every point they added: "No grabbing, no traps. Don't tell anyone about me. And no more of that - no more surprises." Finch pantomimed a shudder. "I hated that."

"What if I say hello, first?" Matt hedged.

Finch was quickly losing the reins to this conversation. "I- I mean. I definitely don't like that. We're not- I'm not- shouldn't even be-"

Matt interjected, "Not talking to each other, I understand. But if this is going to be a two-way street, there needs to be some communication."

"I can leave notes?" Finch weakly suggested.

Matt made a completely neutral-sounding hum and gave Finch a couple ticks to think on that. He not-so-subtly scratched beneath his eye.

"Fuuck," Finch groaned, slumping.

Matt chuckled. "'Fraid not. How about we schedule our meetings in advance? That way, nobody's surprised."

Finch's sigh was harsh. "I guess. Still stinks. There's really nothing else? I can't write in, uh, whatever that is." Finch needlessly gestured at the papers on the table. "Your touch-dots?"

"Braille," Matt corrected. "Believe me, it's more hassle than it's worth. My braille printer barely works half the time."

Finch recalled the many occasions he cursed out that printer, saying, "I- I gathered that. How do you write without the printer?"

"Well. Pencil and eraser is the classic way - or a proper stylus. It'll be tedious for you. Not to mention, you're learning a new language." Delicately, Matt said, "Isn't it better for us to just... talk, like we are now? Like people? This isn't so bad, is it?"

Finch grumbled out a string of unhappy gibberish. 'This' was actually going a lot better than Finch could've imagined, but they weren't admitting that.

"Fine," Finch muttered to themself. They gathered a breath, fully intending on shouting their answer.

Matt smiled and bobbed his head. He said, "Thank you... Finch. I know this isn't easy for you."

Finch's face scrunched. It scrunched harder when he spoke their name, but Finch's displeasure didn't outweigh their initial conundrum. He heard that? Just how good was this man's hearing? Finch remained silent, staring needles at Matt with their eyes narrowed to thin points. Instinctively, their palm went to the pommel of their sewing pin.

The human shifted in his tall bar chair. He cleared his throat and pushed a paper around, saying, "I won't keep you any longer. Take- um. 'Borrow' as much as you need. And our meeting... how does Thursday sound? After supper."

So soon? Two sleeps, and Finch would be face-to-face with the human again...? Finch fiddled with their cookie-coloured sleeve, tugging at the thick fabric. "Uh," they said. "I, uh. That's not much time. To prepare. And whatnot."

Matt nodded. Finch wasn't fooling him, and they both knew it. He proposed, "Friday, then?"

That wasn't much of an improvement. But Finch took what they could get: there wasn't any reason to start pushing their luck again. Finch said, "Friday- Friday's better. Friday's good. After supper. That's- that works."

Finch sucked air through their teeth, cringing. Finch was never good at bluffing. When they didn't have anger or snark to fall back on, all that was left were poor social skills. In front of a giant human bean? They didn't stand a chance. There would be no hiding from him.

Finch briefly rubbed their eyes. All this 'civilized conversation' shit was making it so hard for Finch to feel the necessary anger. It would be infinitely easier if they could spend the whole time yelling at him. What, an evening of just... talking? Like people? Finch couldn't bring themself to believe it was possible. Another trap, was Finch's knee-jerk response. Then, Finch considered the obvious: giant or not, Matt could not see. If it came down to it, Finch could very well get away - so long as they didn't put themself anywhere up high. Stay near an escape route at all times, and be ready for anything.

Just three days.

Finch ran their thumb over the bright red bauble-end of their sword. They really agreed to this. This wasn't what borrowers did; nothing about this situation was right or proper. Everything going on right now went against every single rule in the borrowers' handbook.

The spiteful side of Finch reared its head. When did Finch give a shit about what's right and proper? Since when did Finch care about rules? Had they finally been scared straight? Finch already pushed those boundaries when they began borrowing in the beans' presence - right under his nose. That was the first domino.

Or... no, it wasn't. The first domino fell much sooner than that.

In an instant, Finch recognized exactly what started this chain of events. The culprit was back home, somewhere below the sofa and coffee table. Every night, Finch cozied into it like a sleeping bag, and every morning, they emerged from it like a cocoon.

It all went downhill after Finch looted the laundry that fateful day. The mountain of clean clothes in the basket hadn't been put away yet, and the sock was just laying there on the floor, so deceitfully innocent. How could Finch know the trouble it spawned when they brought it home? The hours were cold, and Finch didn't have enough spare fabric to make a blanket; up to that point, they'd been using their cloak - but it was much too thin. Finch made that cloak for camouflage, not comfort. Their teeth used to chatter in the night, and sleep was broken.

Righteous anger bubbled hotly in Finch's chest, and Finch welcomed it. Really? All of this because an easily replaceable piece of clothing went missing? Was Finch supposed to let themself freeze? What a sick, cosmic joke. The same thing that kept Finch warm at night was also behind their torment; it wasn't a coincidence that traps didn't enter the picture until that stupid fucking sock did.

Finch aimed their scowl at the human. The anger bubbled up to their throat, threatening to spill out. Finch anticipated it. This was what they wanted! A reason to get angry and start yelling, an outlet for their mounting outrage and resentment. Finch ground their molars, indignant.

But Finch didn't shout. It wasn't fear that held their tongue, though Finch could have lied to themself and believed it was. Finch was nearly positive that the human - that Matt - would sit there and take it. He already had.

There was something downright pitiful about Matt's disposition. His gigantic form slouched in its seat, gaze downcast, fingertips tracing the bandages on his knuckles. The guy was having a rough day on his own. Besides: Finch could always yell next meeting. Because those were happening now.

Finch released the tension in their shoulders and jaw. They loosened the death grip on their sewing pin, not consciously registering their own strength. Their fingers cracked as they bent, so Finch finished the job and popped their knuckles one by one.

Out of the corner of Finch's eye, they glimpsed Matt's expression wrinkling into a grimace. They didn't question it, paying him no mind. So long as he stayed in that chair, Finch did not care. Finch shook out their stiff, sweaty hands. They stretched their arms overhead and proceeded to wring out their spine, which gave a satisfying crack!

Finch shut their eyes at the exact moment Matt Murdock swallowed a gag.

Finch sighed and stood up. They patted down their orange overalls. "Well, I'm gonna go," they decided.

Matt wilted. "Ah. Alright, then. I... hm. Safe travels."

Finch cocked their head. Then, they frantically waved their hands, exclaiming, "Oh! Noo, no! I'm staying here. I'm just- I'm gonna head home, eat breakfast-"

Matt laughed. He sounded so relieved, and the way he bowed his head - he almost seemed embarrassed, throwing Finch's head for a loop. Matt exclaimed, "Oh! Oh, okay, I see."

Finch, quick as a whip, automatically responded, "No, you don't."

Finch could've thrown themself off the counter. Regret plowed into the borrower with enough force to rival a firetruck-

And.

He laughed again. It was fuller, genuine, and it took Matt by surprise.

Finch's face burned. They slapped a hand to their hairline, blurting, "I. Did not mean to say that. I- I am- sorry- that was-"

"Oh, please," Matt said with a good-natured smirk, "I can take a joke." Eyebrows high - impressed - he remarked, "That one got me."

Finch's barely legible stutters puttered to a pathetic end. Finch deflated. Lamely, Finch stated, "Mouth's faster than my brain."

Matt hummed out a subdued chuckle, an annoying quirk to his lips like he was in on a secret. "Don't worry about it. It's tiring when people tip-toe around me. Scared to say or do the wrong thing. I can appreciate a good pun."

Finch stood there, unable to feel anything but awkward. They rubbed their overalls, looking anywhere but the dining table. This conversation was unbearable, actually. Finch wanted out.

Finch spun in place. With a "Hup!", Finch eased themself down, leveraging their arms on the slippery ledge. They stabbed their boots into the counter's chipped, wooden side and unhooked the climbing nail from their belt, using its stabby end as a third anchor. The tether tied around the wide base of the nail secured it to Finch's belt. Finch's free right hand clung to whichever handholds were convenient.

As Finch descended hand-over-nail, they threw their voice, announcing, "Ssso, ah, gonna just head out... here. And- and I will see you in three days."

Without hesitation, Matt shot back, "I won't."

It took Finch a second.

When they did get it, Finch stalled. Head hanging to choose their next holds, Finch snickered. It was too quiet for a human to catch. It was a private laugh, a hiss between their teeth that shook their shoulders. Finch resumed their descent.

Rushed, Matt said, "Thank you. For trusting me."

Finch didn't stop entirely, but their progress slowed. Finch didn't know what to say to that. You're welcome? Sure thing?

A few more inches down the cliffside, Finch hollered, "Just-! Don't make me regret this."

"You won't," Matt assured them - then, quickly, "I won't. I swear."

"Swear on what?" Finch challenged, part of them genuinely wanting to know.

Matt needed a moment to answer that. In that moment, Finch's boots clattered to the kitchen floor. They hung the climbing nail on the left side of their belt. Finch wiped their right palm on their overalls, sprinkling sawdust like glitter.

Matt answered, "Whoever will listen."

Finch's mouth tugged into a 'not bad' expression. Finch said, "That's a cop-out. Last time, you said 'God'."

Matt made a non-committal noise "I have a... rocky relationship with God. At this point in my life. Things have happened, people have happened... I don't know where my faith lies."

Finch adjusted their bag. They eyed the dark space between the wall and the refrigerator. Finch took a step.

Matt asked, "And you?"

Finch faltered, doing a double-take toward the dining table. Only the human's pant leg was within view. Finch fumbled out, "Me? Well, I... don't think there's a god. Not the human ideas of God. I haven't seen any intelligent design or divine plans around."

"No?" Matt didn't seem slighted one bit. Curious, in fact.

Finch shrugged and slapped their arms down at their sides. "Nah. Not to me. If everything happens for a reason, they're pretty shit reasons. Anyway... you're a bean. Doesn't matter what I think." Finch prepared to take another step, boot scraping the floor as it lifted.

"What does that mean?" Matt asked. Finch loosed a harsh sigh, stomping their foot back down. Matt clarified, "'Bean'. You mentioned it before. What makes me a bean?"

Finch scuffed a boot tread on the floorboard. "Nothing. 'S just what-" Finch thought before they spoke and decided they were beyond secrecy "-borrowers call you. Human beans."

"Oh! Human beings." Matt jiggled his ankle, sending a very faint tremour through the ground that Finch ignored. He added, "I get it. A misnomer. Cute."

'Cute'. Finch's face pruned into exaggerated expressions as they silently mocked him. Yeah, okay, dude, thought Finch. I'll be SO cute next time I'm stabbing you.

"Call me cute again," Finch said, affect flat, "and I'm canceling this whole meeting business."

Finch was lying, but Matt didn't need to know that. This was a good opportunity to enforce some boundaries.

Right away, Matt said, "Understood. For the record, I was calling the name cute. Not you. I imagine that would be very dehumanizing, wouldn't it? Like you're not being taken seriously."

Finch wished they could hate him. Without inflection, Finch replied, "Nailed it."

BANG!

Finch jumped. Finch dropped into a prey's crouch. Finch just about vomited up their heart, how badly it lurched.

Matt's knee had slammed into the hard rim of the tabletop, rattling the glass pane and his mug. He scrambled to catch the mug. A whispered "Ow" left his lips before Matt was proclaiming, "Sorry! Sorry. I just remembered: I left your nail under the fridge. Your other one. It was... stuck in the glue. I washed the rubber band, too."

Finch bought their heart a beat to calm itself. They blew out a breath. Then, their brain caught up to his words. First, disbelief. Denial. Why would he do that? Then, bargaining - what did he want in return?

Did he think Finch needed-!

Finch forced themself to simmer down. There was no reason to lie about this. There was nothing to gain by giving Finch their missing tool. Except...

"Thank you," Finch said, the most genuine they had ever been to this human. They couldn't even see his face. Maybe it was easier that way.

"Please don't," Matt shot back, audibly wincing. "It's my fault in the first place. Least I could do." Matt cleared his throat. "I'll stop pestering you, now. You were leaving."

Right, Finch was leaving. Finch wanted to leave.

Why were they hesitating?

Finch tipped themself forward, forcing their legs to compensate. They stumbled and kept that momentum. Straight ahead, the fridge towered like a skyscraper against the corner of the wall. After these days apart, its deep shadows were a strange comfort to Finch's psyche. Finch paused before they crossed the threshold. The thrum of the refrigerator buzzed mildly through their skeleton, and the heat it generated was a physical barrier between two worlds. Finch stuck out their arms, lavishing in the warmth. Why would Finch ever leave this?

Finch looked over their shoulder. They yelled, "Be seeing you!"

From this angle, Matt's smile was plenty visible. He replied, "I'll be listening."

And then he waved; a little fan of his wrist.

Finch stopped themself. Their hands smacked loudly against their thighs. Ducking their head, Finch shambled underneath the fridge.

Clank!

And almost immediately ate shit.

A strangled noise wrenched out of Finch when the metal pick on their boot resonated against something also metallic and distinctly bar-shaped, angling itself perfectly to reel Finch in. Finch tripped over it, dragging the clattering obstacle along.

"Motherfucking-!" Half-falling, half-skipping, Finch danced a routine of clumsy footwork until they floundered into a recovery. The whole time, a slew of hushed expletives daisy-chained from Finch's mouth. Finch whirled around and scowled at the offender.

The nail's edges gleamed faintly in the space between shadow and sunlight, its silhouette sharply breaking up the blurred gradient between the two extremes. In hindsight, it was impossible to miss. To be fair to Finch, hindsight also had the advantage of contrast.

Finch's cheeks warmed to match their ire. Boy, were they glad nobody was around to-

"Are you alright?" asked 'nobody'.

"Fine!" Finch shouted at their nosy neighbour, their cracking voice a perfect mix of irritated and humiliated. "Peachy!" Finch stomped over and snatched their long-lost possession. The attached rubber band swung into their shin. Finch coiled it around their elbow and reached to insert the nail in its proper place on their belt-

Right. The sewing pin. Finch hummed to themself, blending into the hum of the gigantic appliance overhead. They would just have to carry the nail.

Finch took one final glance at the wall of light. Then, off they marched.

Not three paces later, Finch kicked something else. It went skidding.

"Oh, for-!" Finch cut themself off and bent at the waist, peering into the dark. They took a step, and there was a crunch under their sole. Finch made out a form, round and bumpy. They poked the thing with the knife-like toe of their boot, then Finch crouched. Its rough surface crumbled in their fingers. Finch brought them up for a sniff - and blinked into a befuddled frown. That was unmistakeable.

Finch pinched part of the cookie. Grains came away. Finch snapped off a sizeable piece. They sniffed it, then performed a test bite like a pirate with a coin.

Yeah, that was stale. How long has it sat here? Finch hadn't come this way in... oh, good gravy, over a week!

The stale crumb made the same sound as an actual coin when it hit the ground. Finch got up and swiftly side-stepped the cookie. The bacteria probably growing on that was too much for even Finch's standards. The counter was one thing; the floor was a line even Finch dared not cross if they didn't absolutely need to. There would be other cookies in the world that didn't come with a chance of illness. One would think borrowers had hardy immune systems - and one would be correct. Finch, however, simply did not play around when it came to mold.

"Noo-ho-ho, thank you," Finch sing-songed to nobody - really, this time. Finch was too far and too small for an audience, and the fridge was loud enough to overpower a whisper. Finch gave the rock-hard cookie a second kick out of their footpath, sending it skittering back toward the light.

Finch hurried along home, ignorant to Matt Murdock's amused smile.

Apparently, this mouse did not want a cookie.

Matt rose from his seat and dropped to one knee next to the fridge, fishing out the tea biscuit. As soon as it hit the open air, Matt wrinkled his nose. Ooh, yeah, that was not edible. He threw it in the trash and washed his hands. There was always next time. After all, what better complimented a meeting between roommates than tea and cookies? Matt tried to think of an appropriately-sized mug, but all that came to mind was a thimble. He'd pop down to Miss Pereira on the next floor and ask to borrow one. She could use a friendly face; her son and daughters hadn't stopped in for a visit, all these months. Her blood pressure was getting weaker, and Matt worried about her sleep apnea.

Matt circled his thumb around the outer edge of the plate that he left on the island. Finch chose to take crumbs from the other counter, instead, not wanting to venture so close - not after what he did. Gone were the days of Finch boldly borrowing in his presence, sneaking out eggs and sugar cubes with dwindling fear. Matt heard their little hummingbird heart fluttering away, smelled the sweat and adrenaline wafting from their pores. Matt needed to make this right. He wouldn't spook them again. Gosh, why did he say that? He wanted so badly to speak up, apologize - and he nearly scared Finch off for good. Again. Why didn't he stop and think before he acted?

Sighing, Matt dumped the crumbs and rinsed the plate. He didn't scare them off, Matt told himself. Finch was willing to talk. That was a huge first step. He just needed to be mindful - considerate. They were so small, so easily hurt. Matt felt it when he held the borrower in his hand; he knew, intuitively, how much pressure would snap one of those itty bitty bones. And it was a frighteningly minuscule amount. A ghost of that sensation crawled inside Matt's loose fist - a squirming body, teeny fingers pushing against his - and he swiftly wiped his hand on his shirt, shaking his head as he banished those intrusive thoughts hijacking his brain. Thoughts of 'What if I grabbed them just now?' or 'What if I squeezed?' or worse that made Matt feel disgusted with himself. Matt purposefully gripped his fingers with his other hand, using the sharp sting of his cuts and aches to distract himself.

Matt followed Finch's journey, conjuring an image to mind of their shoebox-sized house as their door creaked shut behind them. The randomness of whatever objects Finch had acquired made it impossible for Matt to create a complete picture. Most of Finch's furniture were vague blobs. He eked out the coat hanger and door hinge easily enough, but couldn't make sense of the rest. Chairs, a table, a bed, even shelves and a trunk - but what were they? He was so intrigued. Perhaps, he could ask. Not Friday, no - that was too soon to be prying into personal details.

Matt leaned on the counter, tilting his head as Finch tossed their bag onto a table.

"Need to add another loop," Finch murmured, metal clinking and straps sliding as they - Matt guessed - hung up their belt and climbing nails.

Matt had quickly parsed that the new, long addition on their hip was a weapon. It bumped their calf when they walked and knocked noisily on everything they climbed. Matt's best guess was a pin or needle of some kind. It was- no, not cute. Matt needed that word out of his vocabulary. It was impressive: taking every day bits and bobs and turning them into tools. Matt thought of his billy club. What would he fight with if he were a borrower? Toothpicks? Too flimsy. Nails of any shape would be alright - or even a keychain to flail about. Matt wouldn't make a half-bad borrower, in his humble opinion; easy enough to hide from stomping giants and sniff out food. Surely, navigating inside walls was no different than the city. But then he'd also need to avoid cats and rats and raccoons, and how overwhelming would his senses be at three inches tall? 

Life would be simpler, Matt concluded, not easier.

Matt rinsed out his empty mug and gathered his work on the table, stuffing it all inside his messenger bag. Matt got dressed for the day, losing a couple bandages along the way. Karen would no doubt re-apply them the moment he walked into the office. She was so insistent on covering every wound.

"Don't want infections, do we?" Karen had said with her little smile that meant she was up to something. Matt couldn't decipher what.

Matt looped his tie and tightened his laces. He unfolded his small, round glasses and sat them on his nose. Slinging his bag over his shoulder, Matt grabbed one of his many spare canes from the umbrella holder. The holder was a gift from Foggy in the hopes that Matt would "quit losing your dang canes". Matt didn't have the strength to tell Foggy that misplacing them wasn't the problem; neither of Matt's friends/coworkers would take the news well that Matt threw them away.

Matt stopped at the front door. He listened. Judging by the hustle and bustle down there, Finch was gearing up to head out, too.

Praying that he wasn't overstepping this time, Matt called out: "I'm leaving! You've got the place to yourself all day. Don't look for trouble."

Faintly, Matt heard a sardonic, "Says the man who comes home all banged up. Worry 'bout yourself, big guy."

Matt smiled. He turned the handle, and Matt walked out the door.

Finch wished the human would mind his business. This was going to be a regular thing, now, wasn't it? Should Finch expect some 'good morning's, too? Good grief. Finch didn't sign up for this - the contract wasn't even written yet!

Finch finished storing the crumbs they gathered, ensuring their bag was empty. All food went into the old ring box that Finch had gutted; its snapping seal prevented fresh air from entering. Finch feared the scent of tortilla chips was here to stay. Finch dug through their heap of belongings and pulled out another bag. It was velvet, drawstring; a 20-sided die was printed on the side. Finch stuffed it into their borrowing bag, and then some elastic hair bands. Finch rooted around some more, but couldn't find anything else that would make their mission faster or easier.

And they had a meeting with the human on Friday.

Chips and dip, man. This shit sucked.

- - -

AO3