Work Text:
Matt stretched his arms over his head. His muscles and joints complained loudly about how long he had been sitting at his desk today. But it couldn’t be helped. Shortly after lunch, he had discovered that Burke & Winthrop had filed even more motions in the Al-Farsi case. Most matched their usual pattern of almost but not quite frivolous but a couple had tripped over that particular line.
Big mistake, Matt thought with a smile. It probably wasn’t a nice smile. He was feeling the same vicious pleasure that he always did when he had someone on the ropes.
“Wow, whose getting their ass kicked this time?”
Foggy, standing in the door of his office, sounding cheerful despite the long day they both had. Karen had already left for the day. She said something about a lead she wanted to check out for a case she was sharing with Jessica. They had been working together a lot lately . . .
“What makes you think I’m kicking someone’s ass?” he asked.
“I know that smile, buddy,” Foggy said. “You’ve scented blood. So who’s the unlucky bastard, this time?”
“Burke & Winthrop,” Matt said. “You know how Justice Watanabe just warned them about their motion practice?”
“Yeah?” Foggy asked, growing excitement in his voice. “Did they ignore his warning?”
“They did,” Matt confirmed.
“Bad move,” Foggy said with a certain amount of relish. He knew well as Matt did that Justice Watanabe was a very serious, no nonsense judge. He didn’t make idle threats – if he told you he was going to sanction you for doing something, he was going to sanction you. Nor was he going to appreciate the inherent disrespect of having his instructions blatantly ignored like this. Rule 11 sanctions weren’t a guarantee – there was still time for Burke & Winthrop to withdraw the offending motions or modify them just enough to make them acceptable. But they might not and since Justice Watanabe had already warned them, it might not really matter if they do . . . still just a possibility but it was sweet.
“Wanna go to Josie’s?”
Matt considered the offer. It sounded good. He had done everything he could today. You were working – your message said you were even planning to continue working from home after you ate dinner. He hadn’t hung with his friends in a while . . . especially just him and Foggy.
“Sure, Fogs,” he said. “Will Karen and Jessica be joining us?”
“Nah,” Foggy said. Matt could hear the smile in his voice. “Just us avocados tonight.”
“We’re not just avocados, Foggy,” Matt teased. “We’re the best avocados in this city, remember?”
Foggy laughed. “Damn straight. But right now, this avocado needs a beer.”
It didn’t take them long to close up the office and make their way over to Josie’s. The bar had just the right amount of crowd tonight. Big enough to make the place feel lively without making it crowded. Or so loud that he had to cut the outing short before he developed a migraine. The conversation and laughter that filled the bar buffed up against him like a gentle wave. Something he was aware of but could largely ignore. He still held his white cane in his hand but there were enough other regulars in the crowd that he didn’t really need it to get a path cleared to the bar.
“Murdock, Nelson,” Josie greeted them with mock gruffness. He heard the thunk of two glasses hitting the bar and sliding toward them. He recognized the distinctive mixture of sour-sweet-bitter that made up the bar’s brand of draft beer.
“Josie, you are a saint,” Foggy said, grabbing his beer and taking a big gulp before he even tried to sit down. Matt couldn’t blame him. Neither had them had lucked out with opposing counsel today. Matt had gotten Burke & Winthrop. Foggy had Nigel Norwood from Norwood & Sons.
Norwood had been their classmate at Columbia. He didn’t like Matt but he seemed to loathe Foggy in particular. Neither of them had any idea why. Might have been pure snobbishness. Maybe the grandson of a US Senator, scion of a wealthy and prominent New York family hadn’t liked sharing a classroom with the son of a shopkeeper and a public school teacher. They knew that he hadn’t liked getting thoroughly trounced in mock trial by said son. Or that he hadn’t done much better against Foggy in real court cases. Maybe he didn’t like Foggy’s popularity with girls.
For all that Foggy complained about Matt getting all the pretty girls, Foggy had his fair share of admirers. Matt had found himself sexiled to the library several times while they were roommates.
Regardless of the reason, the end result was that Norwood was just as much of a headache as Burke & Winthrop in his own way. Anyone would need a beer after a day like that.
“Save it for your girlfriend, Nelson,” Josie retorted with equally feign annoyance. Matt could tell that she was actually pleased. The banter might have continued but another patron called for her attention and she walked away.
“Speaking of which,” Matt said, folding up his cane and sliding onto a stool. “Where is the lovely Ms. Stahl?”
“Work,” Foggy answered, getting onto his own stool. “Her trial date got moved up and the judge wants the briefing done yesterday.”
Matt made a sympathetic noise. They had all been there. Judges could be impatient like that. He hadn’t forgotten the time their Crim Law professor had her lecture interrupted by a judge who wanted to hear oral arguments on a motion to suppress right then and there. Knowing full well that trying to argue with the judge about his timing would just hurt her case, the professor had just rolled with it. And immediately turned it into a learning opportunity for the class, after getting permission to put the call on speaker phone.
He sipped his beer and wondered if the case you were working on was Marci’s. It was possible. You both worked for the same firm. You had worked as Marci’s paralegal previously. On the other hand, Lee, Everett & Kirby wasn’t exactly small. And there were hundreds of cases on the docket in this city. It could just as easily be a coincidence.
“She was very disappointed,” Foggy continued. “Said that she could really use a beer right now.”
“The changed dates stressed her that much?” Matt asked, frowning. That didn’t sound like Marci. Usually, she thrived under that kind of pressure.
Foggy snorted, “Of course not. She’s fine with that. It’s the new case that she just got assigned to. Or rather it’s who got assigned as her co-counsel on that case.”
“Creepy Asshole?”
“Creepy Asshole,” Foggy confirmed. He didn’t sound happy about it.
Matt scowled. He wasn’t happy about that either. According to Marci, Creepy Asshole was a coworker who treated her like an idiot and never looked higher than her breasts. He had hit on her a few times, through not recently. Apparently he behaved this way toward every woman at the firm but had some kind of connection to the partners that protected him for getting fired. That and he was smart enough to avoid doing and saying anything truly outrageous in front of witnesses.
Marci wouldn’t tell them the man’s name, claiming they might do something dramatic. Like what happened to that guy who had groped her in the library during undergrad. He and Foggy had protested that it was all an accident. Foggy hadn’t mentioned that those bushes said classmate was walking by had very sharp thorns. And Matt certainly hadn’t tripped him with his cane into those bushes. Honest.
That other classmates who exhibited similarly unacceptable behavior had equally bad luck with the topiary around them was sheer coincidence.
Marci hadn’t believe them then and she still didn’t. But not even the solemn vow that Creepy Asshole would have no unfortunate encounters with any plants (through he might have one with the devil) would convince Marci to give them a name.
“I know,” Foggy said, sounding as frustrated as he felt. “Let’s change the subject before I talk myself into borrowing certain items from your apartment. Where’s your new lady tonight?”
“Also working” Matt said. “Her court dates got moved up too.”
Foggy’s hum of acknowledgment was accompanied by the soft swish of hair. Softer than it used to be – Matt still wasn’t entirely used to Foggy’s hair being shorter than his shoulders. Along with other equally quiet sounds and tiny changes in the surrounding air that meant someone was nodding. “You planning on seeing her again?”
It was too easy. “Can’t. I’m blind, remember?”
An irritated huff of air. “I’m giving you a dirty look. You know perfectly well what I meant!”
“You walked right into that one, buddy,” Matt pointed out immediately. “But to answer your question, yes, I am planning to see her again.”
“Good.”
“Good?”
“She makes a very good cake,” Foggy said, sounding almost serious. “And she has already paid us a retainer. Do I need to remind you that we need at least some paying clients?”
“No,” Matt said. “You don’t need to repeat your ‘Con Ed Does Not Accept Bananas’ speech.”
“Hey, don’t knock my bananas speech. It’s very convincing.”
“It is,” Matt said. “I agreed to the sliding scale, didn’t I?”
“You did,” Foggy said. “Despite your bleeding heart.”
“My bleeding heart? I believe it was you who agreed to take the Lincoln case pro bono.
Matt thought that Foggy might be giving him another dirty look. “Don’t act like you weren’t marshaling your arguments for why we had to take that case!”
He smirked. “Didn’t need to. I knew we were going to take that case from the moment Mr. Lincoln walked in our door.”
Foggy grumbled but rather tellingly didn’t argue. Mr. Lincoln had come to them because his landlord was trying to evict him for getting a guide dog, citing the building’s no pets policy. Which didn’t apply to service animals like Cedar. The landlord was probably banking on Mr. Lincoln either not knowing that or lacking the resources to fight it. Unfortunately for the landlord, Nelson & Murdock (for obvious reasons) took a rather dim view on disability discrimination.
Talk quickly turned away from work. Foggy shared the latest Nelson family gossip – who was getting married, which of his cousins was having (another) baby, how one of his little cousins had broken his arm attempting to jump from the roof onto a trampoline and how a different little cousin had gotten her brand-new pink dress covered in duckweed up to the waist while catching frogs . . .
The updates from Maggie had been almost staid by comparison. The teens had stolen some bottles of communion wine and attempted to get themselves drunk off of it. A black cat whose white markings made it look like it was wearing a priest’s collar had effectively moved into the church. Between its appearance and that its favorite napping spots being the pulpit and the confessional booth, the kids had taken to calling it Father Meow. Thankfully, Father Tomas took the cat’s habit of meowing loudly during certain amount of Mass and the resulting giggles in stride.
A home safe message from you still hadn’t arrived by the time Matt was finishing his beer but he wasn’t worried. Not yet. It didn’t normally take you this long to get home but you weren’t actually late. Not yet. There was no reason to worry yet. Maybe the subway was running slow today. Or you had decided to stop for take-out instead of cooking tonight. Or needed to run an errand like grabbing some milk or picking up the dry cleaning. He wasn’t worried.
Foggy finished his own beer – he had slowed down after that first big gulp – and from the sounds of the stool creaking, had shifted to look around.
“Looks like one of the pool tables is opening up,” Foggy said. “Wanna play?”
“Sure,” Matt said, eager to give his mind something to focus on. There was nothing to worry about. Everything was fine.
He played a couple games of pool. He drank a second beer. He engaged in playful banter with Foggy about food that ranged whether pineapple belonged on pizza to best foods. They agreed to disagree on the first (again). For the latter, Foggy’s champion was his grandmother’s chocolate cake (“You can’t even taste the sauerkraut!” / “Maybe you can’t.”) but Matt remained devoted to his dad’s stew (even if making it was always bittersweet and sometimes downright painful).
And the entire time his phone remained still and silent.
It was unlikely that he had missed the notification chime but he checked anyway. Not a single missed call, unheard voice mail, or unread text message . . . . you should have gotten home by now . . .
Fear began to blossom in his chest as he called you even as he tried to tell himself that he was worrying about nothing . . . maybe you had simply run into a friend and lost track of time. Lord knew he and Foggy could talk for hours without realizing how much time had passed . . .
The phone rang and rang but the only answer was a computer saying ‘Hello, you have reached the phone of . . .’
He left a message, tried to play off his concern by teasingly asking you if you somehow managed to end up in Queens. Again. It had been long enough . . .
He slipped his phone back into his pocket and returned his attention to the pool table. But he couldn’t concentrate on it . . . his mind was on his all too quiet phone . . . on sitting on the urge to go home, grab his burner and ask the spider kid if he had met any lost paralegals tonight even if that was bound to make the other vigilante curious . . .
“What’s wrong?” Foggy asked, his heartbeat shifting into its worried rhythm. He lowered his voice before continuing, “Are you hearing something that needs Daredevil?”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Matt said and explained the situation.
“She’s probably fine,” Foggy said but his heart gave away the lie. He wasn’t convinced of that either. Even if you had decided to walk the entire way from the Upper East Side, you ought to be home by now. “You just called her . . . let’s give her a few more minutes to call back.”
Matt agreed and waited, trying not to think about all the ways you could be not fine . . . He wasn’t very successful, the vicious part of his imagination conjuring all of the evils that could have befallen you . . . those awful moments when someone he cared about (loved) heartbeat sputtered to a stop . . . St. Patrick, I beseech thee to protect . . .
You didn’t call back. Matt called again but as before, you didn’t answer. He left another message but couldn’t keep the worry out of his voice this time. As the minutes ticked by agonizingly slow . . . he picked at the label on the empty beer bottle and listened. Not to his phone but beyond . . . training his ears toward your apartment. Hoping that you were there. If you were simply ignoring him, it would hurt but at least you’d be alive . . . but what if you had some kind of accident and couldn’t reach your phone? Had you been lying on the floor of your apartment, in terrible pain, hoping he’d heard your cries for help?
But the only heartbeat he found in your apartment belonged to Houdini. He couldn’t heard that distinctive rhythm anywhere in your building . . .
A hand grabbing his shoulder shattered his concentration. The sounds of the city rose and threatened to drown him in a roaring river of noise. But that was a war that Matt had been fighting since he was nine. He hadn’t lost a battle in a while. He regained control and within it, recognized the hand gripping his shoulder. Along with increasing frantic voice that went with it. Foggy.
“-can hear me? Matt!”
“I can hear you,” Matt said. He tried not to be irritated at his best friend. Foggy had good reason to worry when Matt didn’t appear to be responding to sound. He had only discovered Matt like that once but apparently that was enough to get it permanently etched in Foggy’s mind.
“Did your hearing get wonky again?”
“No,” he said. “Just the opposite. I was trying to see if she was in her apartment or not.”
“Josie’s is close enough to her place that you can do that?” Foggy asked. He sounded surprised. Even after all this time and their many heart-to-hearts after their reconciliation, the extent of Matt’s senses still surprised him.
“Yes,” Matt said. “Just takes a little concentration.”
“Show off,” Foggy said. “So is she there?’
“No.”
“Alright, let’s start looking,” Foggy said, his hand sliding off Matt’s shoulder and into his pocket. He pulled something out – probably his phone. “First things first, let’s see if she ever actually left the office. She works at Lee, Everett & Kirby, right?”
Matt nodded.
“Would Marci know her?”
“She ought to,” Matt said. “She’s been Marci’s paralegal more than once.”
“Good,” Foggy said and did something on his phone. Calling someone as it began to ring . . then the familiar voice of Marci said, “Yes, Foggy Bear?”
“Hey Marci,” Foggy said, doing his best to sound casual and not worried as he asked if she knew if you had left the office today.
“How do you know my paralegal?” Marci demanded.
“I’m her attorney.”
“Why –”
“I’ll explain later,” Foggy cut her off. “She sent Matt a message two hours ago saying she was heading home and would text when she arrived but we haven’t heard anything since and she isn’t answering her phone. Is she still at the office?”
Marci made an irritated noise at being interrupted but answered the question. “Not as far as I know. I didn’t see her actually left this room but all of her things are gone . . . hang on, let me check if anyone saw her leave.”
He did his best to sit on his impatience while Marci asked a few colleagues if they had seen you . . . no, no, no, finally one said yes. They had been at the front desk and saw you walk out of the door, your briefcase in hand just over two hours ago.
“Thanks Marci, you’ve been very helpful,” Foggy said and hung up the phone before Marci could ask him any questions. “I’m going to pay for that later . . . Do you have any of her friends’ numbers?”
“No.” Something that he planned to rectify as soon as possible.
“Family? Could she have decided to to see one of them?”
“No,” Matt said, then shook his head. “And not easily. None of them live in New York . . . I think the sister is the closest. Somewhere in Massachusetts.”
However Foggy would have responded to that was cut off by his phone ringing. “Probably Marci to yell at me . . . no wait, that’s Brett. Why is he calling . . . Hello?”
“Nelson, are you and Murdock in New Jersey or something?”
Matt frowned in confusion. What?
“Noooo . . . why?” Foggy said, sounding as confused by the question as Matt felt.
“Because your client asked for you over an hour ago and your ugly mug still hasn’t shown up.”
“What?!” Both of them exclaimed.
“Didn’t you get a call?” There was a frown in Mahoney’s voice, a note of suspicion.
“Obviously not,” Foggy snapped. “I’ll be there in five minutes.”
He hung up and stuffed his phone back in his pocket. “I think we might have found your girlfriend.”
“Quite possibly,” Matt agreed. Even if it wasn’t you, none of their clients deserved to have been left in interrogation for so long. Especially with detectives who seemed to be outright ignoring their right to counsel. “Let’s go.”
Your legs were so wobbly that Matt almost had to carry you. He had offered. It had been tempting to agree. Very tempting. You had been brave. You had been strong. A not insignificant part of you didn’t want to be either of those things for a while. That part would have been perfectly fine with Matt carrying you around, face burrowed against his chest until you felt better. Or it was tomorrow and you had to face the world regardless. Whichever came first.
But another part of you was angry. Not at Foggy or Matt. You were confident that they hadn’t just left you there, that they had come as soon as they could. But at the detectives for making you feel so helpless and alone, for ignoring your repeated demands to see your attorney like you hadn’t said anything of the sort . . . the near certainty that they had done that to someone else and likely would again . . .
That anger was just a spark right now. Later, when you were feeling less tired and stressed, you were going be furious. But right now, all that anger could accomplish was making you insist on walking. Matt didn’t argue or even get snippy about your tone. Just took as much of your weight as you allowed and helped you walk over to the couch. He eased you both down onto the couch. You kicked off your heels and pulled your legs up, curling against his side. As close as you could get without actually crawling into his lap.
Which you had considered but decided against it. You had displayed enough embarrassing behavior for one night, thank you very much.
Not that Matt seemed to mind your neediness, curling his arm around your shoulders and encouraging you to rest your head on his shoulder. Which you did. The last tears were trickling down your face. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath. Let it slowly. Then another and another. You needed to get level, to be calm. There were things you needed to do before you could call it a day.
But those things would have wait another minute. Or ten. You could hear Foggy moving around, doing something that involved running water but Matt didn’t seemed concerned and it was his apartment . . . so you ignored those sounds in favor of listening to the soft nonsense Matt was murmuring into your hair and taking deep breaths.
You didn’t know how long you sat like that before you heard Foggy softly call your name from nearby. You crackled open an eye and saw him standing to the side of coffee table, holding out something for you. A washcloth.
You must have looked confused because he explained. “Don’t know about you but my eyes always hurt after crying like that. Especially after a long day staring at computer screens. A wet washcloth usually helps them feel better.”
Now that he mentioned it, your eyes did feel a little sore. And more than a little gritty. It couldn’t hurt. You took the washcloth and laid it across your closed eyes. Foggy was right. The coolness felt immediately soothing. “Thank you Foggy. That does help.”
“No problem,” he said with a rustle of clothing and footsteps. “Your tea should be done seeping soon and our food should be here in the next ten minutes.”
“Tea?” You repeated and sniffed the air. You could smell something vaguely herbal but a stronger and more familiar scent was also filling the air, along with a very familiar sound. “I smell coffee.”
“Wow, you two are already copying each other’s sentences?” Foggy teased. “I made the coffee mostly for me and Matt. If you want a cup, I won’t stop you but something without caffeine might be better after all that stress.”
It probably was. You did feel jittery. But you might get a cup of the coffee anyway. Even if you didn’t drink most of it, the warmth and aroma alone was comforting.
“What kind of tea?”
“Don’t know. Braille label just has ‘go to fucking sleep’ on it.”
“It does not,” Matt said. “It says ‘can’t sleep tea.’”
“I was paraphrasing,” Foggy countered. “Since I am positive that ‘can’t sleep’ in Matthew Murdock translates as ‘I haven’t sleep in a week’ to us non-ninjas.”
“I’ve never gone a week without sleep,” Matt argued. “Humans physically can’t stay awake that long.”
“True,” Foggy conceded before adding, “But I distinctively remember spring finals in our freshmen year. You went without sleep long enough to start hallucinating.”
“I wasn’t hallucinating,” Matt protested.
“You said, and I quote, ‘This dorm is a hive. Filled with bees. Buzz.’ Then kept saying buzz over and over again until I slapped my hand over your mouth. Then you licked my hand, Matthew.”
“You licked my hand first.”
“Objection! When did I allegedly lick your hand?”
“When you got drunk at that frat party and got it into your head to serenade that girl from your Punjabi class. At three in the morning. I was trying to shut you up before she threw something heavier than a slipper at you.”
You laughed. Which was probably their goal all long judging by how pleased they looked with themselves when you peeked out from behind the washcloth. The laughter felt good, releasing a tension that you hadn’t realized that you were carrying. You were still giggling when Foggy returned to living room and held out a mug to you. You took it and breathed it in. It might not have been coffee but the warmth seeping into your hands felt nice and it smelled good.
“All joking aside,” you said, looking up at Matt. “What’s in this tea?”
“Mostly chamomile and lavender,” he answered.
“That’s all it takes when you can’t sleep? A cup of flowery tea?” You asked, feeling more than a little jealous. Your insomnia was never so easily defeated . . .
“Not quite,” Matt said. “That’s just part of how I try to relax when I can’t sleep.”
There was the faintest suggestion of a blush dusting his cheeks and the tip of his ears. Which was both adorable and made you powerfully curious. What could make this man blush? Even just a little? He seemed so shameless. Especially last night when he was encouraging you to moan or praising how well you were taking his cock . . .
You felt your face flush at the memory and the accompanying urge to squirm. Then flushed even more when Matt’s head tilted slightly toward you and that knowing smirk starting to form. To distract yourself away from such thoughts before you got (more) worked up, you turned your gaze to the mug in your hands. There wasn’t much to distract your eye. The tea didn’t look much different from black tea other than a little lighter in color and the mug wasn’t decorated beyond being a nice shade of yellow.
You raised the mug to your lips and sipped the tea. The taste was mild, slightly sweet but not sugary. It wasn’t going to replace your beloved coffee anytime soon but you wouldn’t object to being offered another cup in the future. But you couldn’t resist the urge to look at Matt for long.
His mug didn’t match yours. It was white with a stylized drawing of two halved avocados and something written in braille underneath. If you had to guess, it probably said the same thing as the green lettering above it – Best Damn Avocados. Like one of those #1 Dad mugs. Looking closer, you realized that the line art of the avocados was raised. A look over at Foggy showed him drinking out an identical mug.
You found yourself feeling curious again. Those mugs looked something that had been custom-made. Did they really like avocados? You liked avocados too but not enough to get a custom mug. There was probably a story there but before you could ask, there was a knock on the door. Foggy put down his mug and went to the door. You heard the soft murmur of conversation before Foggy came back with a box with the name of local pizzeria in his hands.
The tantalizing aroma of fresh pizza filled the apartment. It made your mouth water. More embarrassingly, your stomach decided to remind everyone that you had missed dinner. Blood returned to your cheeks.
“Hungry?” Matt asked with a little amused smile.
“A little,” you answered ruefully as Foggy walked over with two plates in his hands. Pepperoni. A good choice. You had been expanding your palette since moving to New York but on bad days, you gravitated toward familiar things with happy memories attached to it. Like pepperoni pizza. Even if this hand-tossed crust with its classic leopard spotting was a far cry from the chain-restaurant or freezer section pizza of your childhood.
You must have been hungrier than you thought. You practically inhaled that first slice of pizza. Foggy offered to get you another slice but you quickly said no. He had only just sat down and barely gotten a bite of his own slice. You would get another one yourself. Your legs weren’t entirely on board with this plan. You stood and for a heart-stopping moment, they refused to take your weight.
You started to fall back. But then Matt was there, steadying you with one hand braced against your back, the other on your hip.
“Careful, sweetheart,” he gently chided. “I don’t think any of us wants to add a trip to the ER tonight.”
“Sure you don’t want me to get that pizza?” Foggy asked. He had half raisen from his chair.
“I’m sure,” you said. You reached down and wrapped your hand around Matt’s hand on your hip. You gave it a little squeeze. “I’m fine.”
The hand gave a squeeze of its own to your hip but he didn’t try to stop you from putting your weight back on your legs. This time they held. Matt’s hands slide off of your body with obvious reluctance as you moved toward the kitchen box and the waiting box of pizza. You got your second slice and returned to your previous spot on the couch.
This time you ate more slowly. You had been meaning to try this pizzeria – you walked by it on the way to work and it always smelled good – but hadn’t gotten around to it. It didn’t take long to realize that you should have listened to your nose. It was really good, much better than some of the other places you had tried. From now, you decided, you were getting your pizza from Slice of Life.
You felt a lot better now. The tasks ahead of you that have previously seemed so dauntingly felt manageable. Knowing this second wind wasn’t going to last forever, you cleared your throat and said, “We should probably get started on business.”
Both men seemed to study you for a minute, Matt with his listening closely pose and Foggy with shrewd eyes. But after that minute, both men nodded. Foggy took out a legal pad and pen from his satchel.
You had opened your mouth to begin when Foggy’s phone gave out a loud thrum. It wasn’t the first time the phone had buzzed at him. It had done so several times while you were eating. But each time, Foggy had looked at the call ID and declined the call. This time, however, he fumbled the phone and ended up answering. On speaker phone to boot because you heard a familiar voice all but growl, “Franklin.”
You winced. You recognized that tone. It had never been directed at you but you knew what it meant. Marci Stahl was out for blood.
“Hey Marci,” Foggy said with forced cheerfulness. It was obvious from the look on his face that he knew he was in hot water.
“Do. Not,” she hissed. “‘Hey Marci’ me, Franklin Nelson. I want to know what the hell is going on. Right now!”
After a quick glance at you for permission – Foggy explain the situation. Only in the broad strokes, omitting certain details. Like you had seen Daredevil more than once. And that Matt was the vigilante in question. Listening to his explanation answered a couple of your own questions – Marci was not in on the secret (yet) and how they had learned about the interrogation. Apparently there was at least one detective at that precinct who remembered that things like access to your legal counsel was a right, not a suggestion. Good to know.
“I see,” Marci said after Foggy had finished talking. She sounded more thoughtful than angry now. Which was a relief. “One question.”
“Fire away,” Foggy said as you raised your mug to drink the last of your tea.
“Murdock, are you fucking my paralegal?”
You managed – just barely – not to spray tea all over Matt’s coffee table or dribble it down your shirt. You also avoided chocking on it. Still, you were sputtering and your face felt like it was on fire.
“Ms. Stahl!” you protested.
“That sounds like a yes,” Marci said. “And call me Marci if you are dating Murdock. You are dating right, not just fucking?”
It wasn’t possible to die of embarrassment. Otherwise Jo would have killed you years ago. But sometimes, you thought as you buried your face in your hands, I really wished that it would .
You jumped a little when a hand gripped your knee. You peered through your fingers and saw it was Matt. Who squeezed your knee and sent you a reassuring smile before he answered Marci.
“Yes, Marci, we’re dating.”
“I thought so.”
“Why?” Matt looked genuinely curious. And if you were being honest, you were more than a little curious yourself about that answer.
“That hickey on her neck. You usually aren’t possessive enough of a one-night stand to mark them up like that.”
“Huh,” Foggy said slowly, looking he was mentally reviewing his memory. “I think she’s right.”
“I think you’ll find that I’m always right, Foggy Bear.”
Foggy Bear? That was unexpectedly cute. It also didn’t escape your notice that this was the second person to mention that hickey to you. It seemed your attempt at cover-up was even worse than you thought. Granted, both parties were rather observant people.
Still . . .
“Is there anything else I should be aware?” Marci asked.
“I had work product and similar confidential materials for the Rosenberg-Kowalski case in my briefcase,” you said. “So I refused to unlock it for police when they frisked me. They threatened to get a warrant for the contents.”
“They aren’t very likely to get one. Or a subpoena for that matter,” Marci pointed out.
“I know that,” you said. “But that doesn’t mean that they aren’t going to try. And I assume that you wouldn’t appreciate being caught unaware by such an attempt.”
“You assume correctly,” Marci said. “I’ll watch out for it. Which detectives from which precinct?”
“Tim Vaughn and Darla Reynolds with the 15th Precinct.”
Marci repeated the information in a way that suggested that she was writing that down. Then, after a brief conversation with Foggy, she said good-bye and hung up.
“Okay,” Foggy said, picking up his pen. “Let’s go over exactly what happened.”
You took a deep breathe. Then you started describing what happened, doing your best to remain calm. But when you got to the moment when you tried to get out your phone, your heart began to race with remembered fear. You felt Matt’s leg, pressed up against yours, became rigid.
“He threatened you with a gun?” Matt asked, his voice dark with growing anger. You looked over at him, saw the hands clenched tightly into fists. Then the muscles shifted under his clothes, like he was preparing to stand up. You knew with a visceral certainty that you couldn’t let him do that. If he stood up, he would make a beeline for the Daredevil suit. Assuming he even bothered stopping to grab his armor before darting out the window . . .
Your mind raced, trying to come up with something, anything, to convince him to stay where he was . . . You reached for him, cupping his face in your hands. Gently but firmly you encouraged him to turn his head to face you. Away from where you assumed he had hidden the Daredevil suit.
Once again, you were struck by how beautiful he looked like this. That naked rage blazing in his eyes should have been scary. And while you couldn’t say that it wasn’t intimidating, fear wasn’t your body’s overwhelming reaction.
No, you thought, feeling the wet heat building between your legs. Not fear at all.
His nostrils flared. Then his brow furrowed with the first hint of confusion. It was an opening. You massaged his cheeks with your thumbs. “Orange isn’t your color, baby.”
“He threatened you with a gun.”
“He never even drew the gun from its holster,” you pointed out mildly but his body remained rigid, his eyes filled with anger . . . and fear, you realized with a jolt. He was frightened. And like most men, he was channeling that fear into anger . . .
That give you an idea. It was risky but . . . Not wanting to give yourself time to talk yourself out of it, you leaned forward and pressed your lips against his. He didn’t respond at first. Long enough that you felt the first stirring of panic. Had you just ruined everything . . . but then you felt his mouth soften.
He started kissing you back, his hands raising to cradle your head as he deepened the kiss. It wasn’t a gentle, loving kiss. You didn’t expected it to be. You didn’t want it to be. You wanted him to turn that rage and its underlying fear into passion. And he did, biting and lapping into your mouth with a fierce intensity that left you breathless. Moaning, you didn’t resist as his hands slide down your back and started to tug you into his lap . . .
A sharp whistle pierced the air, startling you. You reeled back from Matt, almost falling off the couch. Where – ?
“Oi, lovebirds!”
Foggy, still lowering his hand from the whistle and looking rather disgusted with both of you. Embarrassment brought a fresh wave of warmth to your face. You had forgotten he was there. At least you weren’t alone in that particular boat. When you risked a glance at Matt, he had the same flushed, vaguely guilty expression on his face that you were pretty sure was gracing yours.
You forced yourself to look away. Before you got too distracted by his kiss-swollen mouth. Or mussed hair. Or . . . You sat up straight and did your best to ignore the empty ache in your cunt. Now really wasn’t the time.
“Can I trust you two to keep everything rated G until I leave?”
“Sorry Fogs. We’ll be good.”
You echoed that agreement.
Foggy looked skeptical but after a moment, gestured for you to continue your story. You did. Matt and Foggy both asked a few clarifying questions. Neither knew what to make of your observations about Reynolds. Matt added that she had smelled like stress, even more than usual for a cop. Still, it was possible that that what was going on was exactly how it appeared to be – a fishing expedition by a couple of overzealous detectives. But it was also possible there was something else going on. There just wasn’t enough information to be know either way. You’d all have to wait and see.
It wasn’t an answer that pleased any of you but it was what it was.
Matt walked you home. By the time you arrived, your second wind was fading fast. Maybe Matt’s sleepy tea was finally catching up with you. But maybe it was just this emotional rollercoaster of a day . . . Either way, you were practically asleep on your feet.
But you had a meowing cat at your feet who, understandably, wanted his dinner. Any dinner, as blurry eyed look showed that all of his bowls were empty. Even his water. Poor kitty. He deserved a much better human friend than you. You started to shuffle toward the cat food but Matt stopped you.
“Get ready for bed, sweetheart. I’ll feed Houdini for you.”
That sounded like a fantastic idea. You loved your cat but you were just so tired . . . You agreed and turned toward your bedroom. You paid very little attention to what you pulled out of the drawer for sleepwear. At this point, as long as it was clean and didn’t itch, you didn’t care what you were wearing. All you cared about was the siren’s call of your nice, comfortable bed with its fluffy pillows and soft blanket . . .
You were just awake enough to notice the warm, furry body joining you in the bed, tucking himself under your chin with a purr. Dimly, you noticed that he smelled like potting soil but you couldn’t remember why that was problem . . .
Just before everything faded away, you felt soft lips press against your forehead and deep voice say, “Goodnight, sweetheart.”