"This is going to be the best," says Foggy.

Karen rips another corner of her chicken sandwich off, which is good, because Matt's so hungry he could eat ten chicken sandwiches. "I don't know, Foggy," she says with an appropriate lining of doubt. "Matt didn't want a dog before, so what makes you think he'd want a cat?"

Matt is going to give Karen a raise. He decides this as he darts forward, nosing until the scent of chicken grease and fingernail polish gets closer. It's a delicate operation, biting the fillet instead of her fingers, but he's rewarded for his care when the chicken sandwich squelches juicily again—she's digging out another chunk for him. A raise, and her own brass name plate.

"Have you seen this cat?" Foggy demands.

"This little cat," coos Karen, fussing Matt between his ears as she feeds him.

"Right, this kitten. This defenseless baby animal, left for half-dead in the streets. This... really adorable, stupid-eared, blind baby animal. Excuse you, but I could hand this cat to Wilson Fisk and that asshole would vomit rainbows and keep it shoved down his shirt where he could feed it all of his lunch, too."

Matt hisses and sticks his tongue between his toes, licking aggressively. No one is handing him to Wilson Fisk. There will be no shirt.

"Represent," agrees Foggy.

"If you want to keep it, Foggy, you should." Karen sounds like she's holding back a smile.

Foggy's hand lands on Matt's back. He arches immediately, instinct overwhelming, and is chagrined when he squeaks. But Foggy's hand feels nice, and scratches are almost as good as chicken sandwich. He rams Foggy's palm with his head.

"Nah," Foggy tells her, "this is Matt's present. Anyway, he'll understand better than anybody how to make it comfortable and happy."

And that's—huh. Matt is touched. Even if what Foggy's really doing is presenting Matt with—well, himself—that's still thoughtful. Maybe he won't leave a regurgitated present in Foggy's shoes, after all.

When he's human again, Matt's going to chug half a carton of milk and tell his friends that they're ridiculous but he loves them.

So, the cat thing.

It's getting mixed up in the wrong crowd, that's all. Sorcerers and enchantresses, that's more of the Avengers' deal. They're a one-stop shop for villains of otherworldly powers and origin. Matt doesn't get much of that ilk in Hell's Kitchen. He spends his nights with junkies, thieves, rapists, and murderers. You know, the old-fashioned assholes playing night to night in their graveyards.

But it only takes one hooded figure in a dark alleyway to send his good record careening into the pavement. Magic can suck Matt Murdock's dick.

"It's better this than a goat," says Hoodie. "Those horns almost gave me ideas, you know."

So Matt claws his way out of his suit, a sodden heap on the ground, and shivers in a small ball for a while. The world is much louder when you're smaller than a toaster. His sense of smell is about the same, at least. When he recovers, he cautiously heads for the street and hopes that he can find answers somewhere.

He runs into four tomcats defending their territories instead. Wins each fight, but at a cost. He's limping and missing part of an ear by the time he's home, and when he gets there, all Matt can do is cry pitifully at the door.

Foggy comes to check in on Matt the next morning, as the hours pass and the sun's warmth creeps across the floor. Matt recognizes the tread of his shoes and the smell of sesame bagels with cream cheese, and he perks up his ears even though he's tired and hungry and sad and wrong-shaped.

"Foggy, I smell like old gum and it upsets me," he says.

"Oh hi," says Foggy. "Wow, you look—ouch. C'mere, little guy, we'll raid Matt's icebox for some ham to keep you occupied on our impromptu vet trip. Because you need, like, a vet." He lifts Matt up by his scruff and adds, "Let me guess, I should see the other guy?"

"Vet? I want Claire," Matt yowls, and bites him.

(Hey, he's in a really bad mood. So sue him.)

Don't sue him, he already feels bad. He'll give it all up in confession. There's no way his priest will even blink at "Forgive me, Father, I bit my best friend when he tried to tenderly cradle me in his hands" after all of Matt's other shit.

Karen makes him a little bed made out of musty sweater, newspaper, and the dishtowel that used to catch spills around the coffee machine. She puts it under her desk, clearly aiming to keep Matt to herself, and coaxes him to its nefarious jaws with more chicken and deli meats and a bit of cookie. "Get you all fattened up," she says, rubbing his tummy. "Yes, we will! Kitties need round bellies."

"I don't know how to feel about this," says Matt. "You're making it weird. But you smell good. Help."

"You're chatty," Karen tells him. She strokes the silky line of his nose, going with the grain of the fur. "That's not a bad thing. Sometimes we get lonely here, without Matt."

Oh Lord, he realizes, he's going to hear secrets. Foggy is going to murder him when he's human again.

Matt's solution is ingenious. He skips out between her legs and dashes for the broken air vent in the kitchen area of their office. They spend the next three hours cajoling him to come out, but Matt curls up in a corner and sleeps, satisfied he can't be burdened with more things that will hurt his heart to hear.

"Please come out, Magical Mr. Mistoffelees," Foggy begs. "We have to go home, but I don't think either of us can actually leave until you come out of the air duct. Or, like, make a noise to let us know you're alive."

"Mister what?"

"You haven't seen Cats?"

This is what he wakes up to: names. Matt stretches with a yawn, wiggling his butt. He considers staying right where he's at, but then Foggy says, "What about Catbert? Lord Lion-O?"

"Keep them coming, Cheetara," says Matt. He squeezes himself through the tiny hole in the vent cover and is immediately scooped up and pressed into Karen's chest. Which is—oh. He can practically smell Foggy's envy.

"Foggy, we can't just leave him here. He's scared and alone."

Foggy hesitates. "Do you want to take him home?"

Matt considers what they'll do to him if he changes back in Karen's bed, and he's still considering that, and whether it would be worth it, when Karen sighs and rubs him between his ears. "No," she says, wistful. "I'd like to, but my place really isn't kitten-proof right now. I think he likes you better, anyway."

No, Matt can't have that. He aims with care and licks her nose.

"It's because I like you that I have to make good life choices," he tells her.

Karen is silent for a moment. Then she kisses the top of his head as if he's made of hollow bones, as if he's proven something for her, and they are okay.

At Foggy's apartment, Matt quickly realizes that he can do a double back flip if he races the line of the room and uses the bathroom door as a springboard.

"Oh my god," shouts Foggy, sheets rustling around him. "I need to sleep, tiny spawn of Satan."

"THIS IS THE MOST AMAZING THING EVER," says Matt. "FOGGY. FOGGY, WATCH ME, WATCH ME DO THE THING."

(He's feeling a little manic. It's probably something to worry about. Whatever. If he gallops around the living area eighteen times at high speed, and then rips the stuffing out of the throw pillow that smells like pizza, the universe will make sense again. It's like some divine understanding has come down upon him.)

"Why," says Foggy.

Matt changes back into Matt Murdock, Actual Human Being around six-thirty in the morning. He's dreaming of candles fitzing out in the dark, and then suddenly something cracks painfully around him and he wakes up with a jolt, sprawled naked in a pile of what smells and feels like dirty clothes and wicker.

Oh. "I was possibly sleeping in the hamper," he says, out loud, to prove he can. His voice is scratchy but it sounds normal again. His mouth tastes like—synthetic cotton and year-old pepperoni, ugh.

He fumbles around until he finds a wall to lean on. Then he gets up, legs shaky.

There's an aluminum clang, and Matt realizes that Foggy's standing nearby watching him do these things, because that's unmistakably the baseball bat.

"Right," says Foggy, with the calm voice of someone about to freak out. "Blind cat who had his ass kicked, and who turns up his nose at Fancy Feast. Obviously, you were my best friend, who secretly masquerades as a street hero, who secretly masquerades as a tiny baby animal, who secretly—what next?"

"The cat thing is new," Matt says with painful sincerity. "My life is hell, Foggy."

"I think you ate half of my living room," he says.

Matt opens his mouth, but he has no idea how to respond to that. After a while, he just shuts up and rubs his face.

"You're also really naked," Foggy adds, belatedly.

"Could you—?"

"Yeah, yeah, of course. C'mon, I've got tall asshole lawyer sweatshirts somewhere in my closet. Probably. Did you know you ate my pillow?"

"Yes."

"You ate my pillow," says Foggy, as if the potential for blackmail material is just dawning on him. "Oh. Oh, okay. This is going to be the best."

(They keep the box of Fancy Feast cans, just in case.)