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banditthewriter · 2 years

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In Time - Billy Russo

And here we have the 2022 Halloween Fic! I want to thank everyone for supporting me and helping me get to the point where I was able to write this this year. I honestly wasn’t sure I’d be able to do it. And a very special thank you to @dragon-of-winterfell for sending in the idea that sparked this thing!

Summary: It’s time for the annual Purge. The reader usually hides in a bunker with Billy, Frank, Karen, and the Lieberman family. This year, things are going to get bloody.

Warnings: Torture. Writer has never seen Purge movies so don’t expect me to be too true to those stores. But seriously, the reader is tortured. Some things happen explicitly, but most are just described afterwards. Also writer barely edited this so...my bad.

Enjoy!

*gif is mine*

------

The chime above the door to Slice of Heaven made you look up from where you were balancing the books. An older couple came in and waved at you as they went to their usual booth. One of your waitresses was at their side a few moments later, chatting happily.

The diner had been left to you by your parents and you took a lot of pride in the environment that had been created. No such thing as a stranger, you treated everyone who came in as regulars. Of course this meant a lot of them did become regulars. Your staff was the same way.

A group of rowdy college boys were in the far corner goofing off. It was mid afternoon, not exactly your busiest time, but the laughter and excitement that poured off of them made the diner feel small.

Or maybe it was because you could hear what they were discussing.

"C'mon, what about going to like Ithaca or something? Smaller areas are less protected."

"Nah, that's why we need to stay near the city. We don't want to be away from all of it."

"Yea! It's gonna be wild. We could pick a small borough to stay near though."

Your skin prickled as you listened to them plan. A group of six guys all discussing the pros and cons of where they should settle down made you uneasy but you couldn't exactly kick them out. Even if a few of them seemed a little uneasy at the thought of being in the city.

A clatter from the kitchen had you turning away from the guys. One of the waitresses had dropped a tray of dishes. Thankfully nothing looked broken, but she was ashen as she bent down to pick them up.

"Let me help you," you offered softly as you knelt down beside her.

Emily was your newest waitress. Putting herself through college, she was a sweet and devoted worker. Her dream of coming to New York City for college hadn't been dampened by the laws, but you knew she wasn't looking forward to her first year here.

"It's going to be okay Em," you promised as you scooped the dishes back onto the tray. "You have your plan, right? It's been verified."

Her hands shook as she picked up the last few pieces of cutlery.

"I know. I went over it with the people you got me in touch with. I just…" Her eyes cut to the left. Even though you were both crouched on the floor in the kitchen and couldn't even see the dining room, you knew she was looking towards the college boys.

You took the spoons and forks from her hands. Then you helped her stand and pulled her into a hug.

"It's going to be okay Emily. I know you're worried right now, but it's going to be okay."

You desperately hoped you weren't wrong about that.

—

The soft chime of your cell phone made you look over from where you were wiping the counter. It was turned to a weird angle so you couldn't clearly read the name but the familiar picture of your best friend made you smile. Rag in one hand, you reached out and snagged the device with your other.

"To what do I owe this pleasure?"

Billy Russo snorted in amusement.

"You're ridiculous. I always call you when you're closing by yourself."

You rolled your eyes at that, but it was out of fondness. You tucked the phone against your ear as you went back to cleaning.

"Nothing is going to happen to me, you know that."

"Some of us still very clearly remember what it was like before…"

Before. You remembered what it was like before as well.

Your eyes went to the picture of your parents in front of the door to Slice of Heaven the first day they opened it. They were from before as well.

A shudder ran through you at that. You shook away the memories and focused back on the conversation.

"Thanks again for helping Emily with her plan. I really appreciate it."

"Frank and I are happy to help. This time of year is our busiest for consulting, but Anvil is equipped for it."

"I know it is. I also know you don't charge my referrals like you're supposed to."

Billy snorted again. You heard a faint creak, most likely from his office chair as he readjusted his position.

"Your referrals are usually your employees. I know you pay them better than most but I also know most of them are either working multiple jobs already or putting themselves through school. They qualify for the friends of a friend discount."

"You also didn't let me pay when I had you guys consult for me."

"Because we didn't help you plan for what you were going to do. We just told you what you were going to do."

You laughed at that, but it was tinged with a little sadness.

"Can't believe this is the fourth time this is happening."

When the law had passed, you'd thought it was impossible. Who in the hell thought that making all crime legal for twelve hours would actually help the crime rate? And while the numbers seemed to support it, that didn't change the fact that it meant devastation for the people who couldn't afford to turn their homes into Fort Knox knock offs.

"There's talk about reversing the law. Maybe this will be the last one."

Your fingers clenched in the rag before you tossed it onto the counter.

"They've talked about that since it was put into effect. It's just a way for them to shut us up from complaining."

This was a constant worry for people even though it only took place once a year. People spent all year preparing for this. Most of them prepare to survive but some like the college kids from earlier were preparing to participate.

"Just remember to get to the bunker by 6:30, okay? You'll be safe with us."

That was putting it mildly. The bunker that they used was impenetrable and protected by so many counter measures that it would take an army to get through. It had been Frank's hideout at one point and then reinforced and updated with Billy's tech and money.

It would be their friend David "Micro" Leiberman and his family, Frank's girlfriend Karen Page, her friend and coworker Foggy Nelson, and you. Your first year had been spent alone and terrified, but since then you've been sequestered with them.

Frank and Billy sometimes started the night there, but usually they stayed out in the city. So did Matt Murdock, the blind lawyer with heightened senses who fought what little crime there was during the rest of the year. Frank and Billy stayed out to protect people as best they could.

Billy changed the subject to talk about something he had seen on television but your mind still strayed to what was coming in just a few days.

The fourth annual Purge was almost there.

—

Five Hours Until Purge

—

The atmosphere in the diner was different than it was every other day of the year. Most of your staff didn't work on the day of the purge, but you stayed open for a few hours. You provided a good meal to anyone and didn't charge. It had been your routine since the purge started.

Tensions always ran higher near the purge, but it was nothing like the day of. Everyone seemed to be walking on eggshells, careful not to tip the balances in case the stranger you interacted with was someone who would want to hunt you that night. Many people probably thought that's why you didn't charge for serving day of.

Except you had a very different reason. You saw these people come in for a meal and recognized that for some of them, it was either going to be their last meal or the last meal before their lives changed irreparably. You wanted to take some of that stress away for them.

Billy thought you were insane for working the day of the purge but as long as you closed early, he wouldn't push the issue. The purge started at 7pm so you always closed by 5 at the latest.

Your phone rang as you handed one of your three customers their food. With an apologetic smile you stepped away and pulled it out of your pocket.

Speak of the devil.

"It's only 2pm. You're early."

There was a stretch of silence on the other side that made you groan.

"You need to wrap up early today."

There was a seriousness in Billy's voice that made a chill run up your spine. You waved at your lone waiter Enrique to let him know you were going to step in the back for a second. Once you were in your office, you sat down on the edge of your desk.

"What's the matter? What's going on?"

One of the things you had learned about Billy was that there was always a reason for what he was doing. He was a very particular person that way. And even when he was serious about things, when he talked to you, it was always with a lightness in his voice. That lightness was gone.

"I mean it. Close up now and come to the bunker."

A sense of foreboding went over you as you listened to Billy's deep breaths.

"Billy, you're scaring me. Tell me what's going on?"

It wasn't your plea that made him sigh; it was you saying he was scaring you.

"The person that…the guy that Frank and I dealt with overseas…he's made some threats about this purge. Just, please, come to the bunker."

You rubbed your hand over your bare arm. You didn't know much about the guy himself, but you knew what he was referring to. Agent Orange as he was known while they were overseas, someone high up in the government who made Frank and Billy do things they regretted. If he was making threats, something had to have happened recently.

And it wasn't like they could handle it themselves. Sure, some crime happened during the rest of the year, but nothing that large. And higher up government officials were some of the only people off limits during the purge.

"The purge doesn't start until 7. I have plenty of time to get there Billy. I promise I'll close at five on the dot and I'll head straight there."

He swore, your name mixed in the middle. Then you could almost imagine him gathering himself before he spoke again.

"Get here as soon as you can. Promise me."

The ice that had gathered around your heart at the seriousness in his voice melted.

"I promise Billy."

—

Two Hours Before Purge

—

The sign on the door was flipped around to read that the diner was closed. Normally you opened up at 7 in the morning but you would be closed tomorrow as well. The diner had been covered in graffiti before, windows broken and some stuff stolen, so you always pushed back reopening for a few days so you could clean it up. Thankfully your insurance covered purge related damages.

You finished your locking up and made sure everything you cared about was in the safe under the floor. Then you checked your purse for the bank deposit which you'd drop off in the morning.

The mental checklist you had for the purge was mostly complete. Just needed to grab your bag which you'd already brought to the front and you could leave. You'd pull down the metal gate and lock up before you would head to the bunker.

The bell chiming over the door made you spin around. Then you cautiously poked your head out of your office.

Three men stood in the middle of the dinner. They looked normal enough, jeans and long sleeve shirts. One was wearing dress shoes as he looked up at the menu over the counter.

"HI, sorry guys, I'm closed for the day."

The one closest to you spun around to face you with a confused look.

"The door was unlocked and the sign said open?"

You glanced at the door and sure enough, your sign was turned around. Unease settled in your stomach as you stared at the lock on the door which was obviously unlocked. But you remembered locking it and flipping the sign.

"Must have slipped my mind, sorry about that. We are closed though."

The guy in the dress shoes smiled and pressed his hands onto the counter.

"C'mon, we just want some coffee. Gonna be a long night."

That unease grew as the three men stayed standing on the other side of the counter. Your eyes darted to the clock on the wall.

"I already emptied the pot," you said as you clutched your bag a little tighter.

"Fresh pot sounds good to me," the guy you assumed was the leader said before he pulled down a stool to sit. The others followed suit.

Shit. Okay, well you'd make some coffee and put it in to go cups. You almost wanted to lock the door again but with them in there, you weren't about to do that. Instead you walked out into the dining room and flipped the sign around. Then you grabbed your bag and carried it back to your office. You tucked your duffle and purse in a corner behind a cabinet before you headed back to the counter.

You kept one eye on the three of them as you started a new pot of coffee. They talked quietly amongst themselves, loud enough for you to hear they were discussing some sporting event they had gone to recently. A little of the unease let up but you didn't drop your guard.

The melody of your ring tone made you jump. As you pulled it out, you saw at least one of the guys sit up a little straighter.

You didn't even look at the phone to know who it was.

"I haven't left yet," you said immediately, phone to your ear.

God how slow was this coffee pot?

"It's after five, you should have closed. Leave the cleaning until later."

You made your way into the kitchen. When the swinging door shut behind you, you sighed.

"Had some stragglers want some coffee."

Billy's voice was cold when he spoke.

"Fuck 'em. Tell them to get out. You're pushing it right now and you need to get out of there."

You moved to the side so you could see through the small window on the door. The men were all still talking but you had a feeling they were all on alert.

Red flags shot up and made your hands shake.

"Billy, I think…I think they may be…I might be in trouble."

You heard a swear. Then in the background you heard another voice. It was obviously Frank even if you couldn't make out what he was saying.

"Yea, I got it," Billy said to Frank. Then to you, "Go back out there and talk to me. Make it loud but not obvious. Talk like you're talking to your boyfriend or husband, okay?"

You didn't want to go back out there but you had to. As much as you wanted to leave out the back door, you didn't want to leave them in your diner.

With Billy's steady voice in your ear, you stepped through the swinging door and went over to the coffee pot. Then, a little louder than you normally would have, you began to talk to Billy.

"Don't worry babe, I'll be finished here in a few minutes. I'm grabbing the to go cups now."

You grabbed the thickened Styrofoam cups and started to pour the coffee.

"Good, good. Alright, now I'm coming to you okay?"

"You're coming here? I thought I was meeting you there," you said loudly, half so they would hear and half because you were surprised.

"Not anymore, not with you in danger. I'm leaving the bunker now and I'm speeding all the way."

The bunker was about 30 minutes away. You glanced up at the clock. Almost five thirty.

"Okay, I'll see you in ten minutes," you said nonchalantly as you finished off the last cup.

"Good girl, lie through your teeth. I'll be there in fifteen. Act like you're hanging up and put the phone down but don't disconnect. You're not going to be alone, okay?"

"Okay Billy, I'll see you in ten. Bye."

You pretended to hit a button on the screen and then locked it so that the light went away. You placed the phone face up. Then you grabbed the three cups and lids and carried them over to the guys.

"There's cream and sugar on the counter or by the door. I really do need to close up though."

The one who had done all the talking grinned and raised his hands after he dropped some bills on the counter.

"We know when we're not welcome. Thanks for the coffee."

They grabbed a few packets of sugar and creamer and all made their way to the door. You watched it close behind them and sighed out gratefully. They really did just stop by for coffee.

You grabbed your phone and put it back to your ear.

"They left."

"Lock the door and get your stuff. I'll be there as soon as I can."

Your heart skipped a beat. Even with the immediate danger being gone, you didn't want to be alone.

"Please don't hang up."

"I'm not going anywhere sweetheart, I'm still on the phone. Go lock the door."

You sighed gratefully. Then you scurried to do as you were told. You locked the door and peered through the blinds.

The street was abandoned. The other stores you could see already had their gates pulled down. No cars were on the street, no people walking this way or that. Completely empty.

You hurried back to your office and grabbed your bags again. You leaned against the wall and sighed.

"Next year I'm not opening day of," you said as you closed your eyes and tried to slow your racing heart.

"No shit," Billy said sarcastically with a little relief in his voice. "I'm locking you in the bunker at 7am the day before. You have no idea how terrified I was when you said you thought you were in trouble."

You thought about the threats he had mentioned. Yea, you imagined he would have been scared.

"I know that you're scared they might go through me to get to you, but–"

"I'm not worried about myself. Just like Frank isn't worried about himself. He worries about Karen and I'm worried about you."

Your heart skipped a beat for a very different reason.

"You don't have to worry about me Billy. I'm okay."

You heard him sigh over the low hum of the engine of his car.

"I can't help it. That's what you do when you lov–"

Billy's words were drowned out by glass shattering in the other room. You let out a scream and jumped away from the door.

"What? What is it?!"

"I don't know. It sounds like the window was shattered or something."

That low hum of his engine increased.

"I'm almost there, okay? Just stay in your office. I'm almost there."

You opened your mouth to say you would, that you knew he'd be there soon. Instead all you could do was start to cough.

Some sort of smoke was filling your office. You coughed and tried to wave it away from your face.

"There's smoke…" you said as you coughed, trying to let Billy know what was going on.

"Smoke? Is the diner on fire?"

You opened your mouth to say no, it didn't smell like that kind of smoke. But your eyes drooped shut and you felt your body folding in on itself.

Your last thoughts as you distantly heard Billy yell your name was that this wasn't supposed to be happening yet. It was too early.

—

There seemed to be a marching band performing in your head. Deep thudding and loud crashing, over and over. You squeezed your eyes shut as if that would help block the noise. Then with a groan you reached up to block your ears.

Well you would have if your hands would move. You frowned and opened your eyes, a process that took forever. Except…no, your eyes were open. So why was it so dark?

You took a deep breath out of fear. A cough erupted from your lungs from the force, but it didn't make it past whatever was in your mouth.

Everything came screaming to a halt as it all came back to you. The men in the diner. Them leaving. The glass shattering in the front of the diner. Smoke filling your office. Billy telling you he was on his way.

Billy. You'd been on the phone with you. He would have heard, wouldn't he? He had been close to the diner, he said he was almost there.

Slowly you become aware of your body aching. Your right arm was stretched above you, tied to something with no slack. Your left arm was tied to something else that was lower but still tight enough you couldn't even wiggle them. Your legs were under you, bound at the ankles it felt like. Then you focused on your face. A blindfold and some sort of gag were on your face, keeping you disoriented and silent.

And there was something heavy around your neck, resting on your sternum. You lowered your head to poke it with your chin. Metal, bulky.

"Wouldn't do that if I were you," a voice said from your left. When you jerked, they chuckled. "Welcome back to the land of the living. Don't start messing with your necklace, okay? Unless you aren't interested in keeping your head attached to your neck."

You froze. It was some sort of device, whether a bomb or something even more nefarious, and it was primed to hurt you.

"Is our guest awake?"

A second voice. You forced yourself to clear your mind of the fears that were growing. A sense of calm fell over you. Then you turned your remaining sense to the task at hand. You listened as the two men spoke.

"She's up. Grab that for me, will ya?"

You heard something clang which made you jump. Then there was pressure on your arms. Whatever you were tied to started to adjust until you were standing, both arms outstretched. Your shoulders ached from the angle and the way your body was being lifted.

With your ankles tied together, you probably would have wobbled or been unbalanced, but the mechanism holding you up bore most of your weight.

"Did you grab the…ah, there. Let me see. Shit, locked. Hold on."

You felt something touch your right hand and you tried to flinch away. When that didn't work you forced your fingers inward.

That didn't stop the man from prying your fingers open. When you tried to do it again, he yanked your pointer finger backwards to the point where you felt it pop. The scream you let out was muffled through the gag as pain washed over you from what was probably a broken finger.

"Stop moving, jeez."

The nonchalance in his voice made your blood run cold. Then something was pressed against your newly broken finger making you cry out again but you forced yourself not to move.

"There we go. Aaaaand…there!"

Your phone. That was the thing they had, the thing that was pressed against your pointer finger. They needed it unlocked.

Not that you had any idea what he'd done with it.

"I almost feel bad for her," the first voice said without a shred of sympathy in his voice. "Innocent bystander in this."

"No one is innocent. Remember that. And especially not–"

Whatever he was going to say was drowned out by a noise in the distance. It took you a minute minute recognize the sound.

It was the siren that marked the beginning of the purge. Your blood ran cold even as you felt the heat of fear rush over your skin.

"Ah, perfect timing."

Hands came to your head but you didn't move, frozen in fear. It didn't matter because all that happened was that your blindfold was removed. You blinked a few times to get your eyes adjusted to the dim light above you and take in your surroundings. Some sort of warehouse. Two men in front of you.

One was one of the guys from the diner. The other was a shorter bald man who you didn't recognize. You'd definitely remember someone with a glass eye.

"Let the games begin," the man with the glass eye said as he smiled at you.

—

7pm

—

You'd never seen a shark up close but you imagined it looked a lot like the man with the glass eye that paced back and forth in front of you. There was something so unsettling about the man as he stood in a button up shirt and slacks. His attire wasn't threatening, his features weren't either. It was something else, something under the surface. Some animal instinct that made you sense that this was a predator and you were the prey.

The second man came over and undid the knot that held the gag in your mouth. He pulled it away and you immediately took a deep breath. Your chest hurt, a byproduct of whatever gas they used to knock you out, but you didn't cough this time.

"Rawlins, here."

Something was passed to the man with a glass eye. You caught a glimpse of your phone case before he slid it into his pocket.

"You're in for a long night. Don't bother screaming for help. No one will hear you."

They kept you blindfolded and gagged before the start because if you somehow got away, you wouldn't be able to describe them. But now it was fair game. Except…

"You kidnapped me before the start," you said, your voice shaking a bit.

The glass eyed man walked up until he was in front of you, his breath fanning against your face.

"That will be our little secret."

Because you weren't getting out of here alive. No one would know you'd gotten kidnapped before the start because there was no one around and you'd be unable to tell anyone after it was over because they were going to kill you.

Billy. You'd been on the phone with Billy when it happened. You almost said as much, wanted to tell them they wouldn't get away with it, but you bit your tongue. You didn't want him to be a target.

What did think when he got to the diner and saw that you were gone? He'd be worried, frantic. He'd probably try to find you, to bring you back.

Maybe he'd avenge you. Like Frank did with the loss of his wife and kids. The first purge, he went after the people who killed them. Part of you thought that that's why he and Billy kept going out during the purge. To keep anyone else from going through the pain that Frank still carried with him.

Then you thought about Billy. The phone conversation before the attack.

You'd told him he didn't have to worry about you and he'd said he couldn't help it. The next part had been interrupted by the attack, but it'd sounded like he was going to say that's what you do when you love someone.

You straightened your spine and stared straight at the man that had taken you. Pain radiated from your finger, your head was pounding.

You weren't going to give in without a fight. That's what Billy would do, what Frank or Karen would do. It's what your parents would want you to do.

This man could break your bones and your body but he wasn't going to break your spirit. If there was a way for you to survive, you'd find it. If there wasn't a way, you'd make him regret ever targeting you.

Let the games begin indeed.

—

8pm

—

You had been mostly left alone. Every now and then someone would come in and take a picture of you with their phone, but you hadn't seen Glass Eye since the first confrontation.

The delay was probably part of the torture. Being constantly on edge was making you paranoid of every noise in the distance. The lack of distraction also meant your finger was hurting twice as much. You could just barely see it from your position but you didn't want to look at it.

Now that you didn't have people in the room with you, you looked around to get your bearings. It was definitely some sort of a warehouse. Your arms were strung from pieces of equipment that hung from the rafters but you didn't recognize any of it. There was a stale smell, like it hadn't been used in a while.

You couldn't move around much because you didn't know anything about the contraption around your neck, but you could turn just enough to see a clock on the far wall. The hands were moving and it seemed to be correct. You watched the minute hand tick and tick from 8:05 to 8:10 to 8:15.

The door opened and someone came in. It was the leader of the group that you remembered from the diner. He grinned at you as he raised his phone to snap a picture of you.

"Why are you doing this?"

He was as surprised as you were that you spoke. Then the question sunk in and he shrugged.

"It's the purge. We can do whatever we want."

You shifted a bit, internally wishing your legs weren't tied together because you wanted to stand your ground.

"And this is what you want? To kidnap and torture a stranger who has never done anything to you?"

He walked a little closer to you, looking you over. There was nothing sexual in his eyes, just a clinical once over. When he met your gaze again, you had a brief moment to think you might have misjudged him before he spoke.

"I don't care what happens to you. I don't care about what happens to anyone. In the morning I'm getting paid a hefty sum, no matter if you're alive or not. That's all I care about."

The cold detachment in his voice made you shudder. Then he gave you that same grin from before as he turned to leave you alone once more.

Your eyes went to the clock and you watched the minutes tick by. At 8:30 the door opened and someone else came in to take a picture of you. You didn't engage this time, just waited until they shut the door before you looked at the clock again.

Once more at 8:45, another picture. Every fifteen minutes. You wondered why they'd be doing that if they weren't doing anything to you. It wasn't like you were changing much just hanging here.

Unless it was going to become some sort of sick flipbook of your twelve hours of captivation, you could only think of one reason that they were taking pictures of you like this.

Proof of life.

—

9pm

—

After the picture at 9, you decided you needed to do something. Hanging here and waiting wasn't working for you. You were just about to start wiggling your left arm to see if you could work the ropes loose when the door opened again.

Glass Eye walked in. He didn't immediately head over to you. First he went over to a table that had some black cloth on it. When he pulled back the cloth, you wanted to recoil. Laid out were different kinds of instruments. They all probably had legitimate uses, but in this room, you could think of only one.

He pushed the table over so that it was closer to you. Then he stepped back and raised a phone. It took you a second to realize he was holding your phone still. He snapped a picture and tapped away for a second before he stepped back and took another photo.

The table. He was making sure the table was in view. What had been pictures for proof of life were taking a turn. This was more a threat of what was to come.

"Won't be long now," he said as he slid your phone back into his pocket.

Then he turned and started away from you. Anger and fear rose in you until you blurted something out.

"Just do something you asshole!"

The outburst made him pause. He turned to look at you over his shoulder. Then he turned to face you fully. Your body began to shake as he walked towards you. A sigh of relief almost passed your lips as he bypassed the table, but it was turned into a groan as his fist came flying and slammed into your stomach. Another caught the side of your face and made your head jerk sideways. Another in your stomach again.

As you doubled over as much as your arms would let you, you tried to catch your breath. You saw a movement and then flinched backwards as his hand grabbed your chin to raise your face.

Your phone was in front of you for a second before he pulled away. Then he turned to leave without a word.

The pain in your stomach was mild compared to the pain in your face. You felt something slowly dripping from your cheek and realized he must have split the skin over your cheekbone. Hell with that much pain he might have shattered your cheekbone.

Taunting him obviously wasn't the way to go about things.

You glanced at the clock and sighed. 9:12. Someone would be in soon for the next picture. Until then you'd close your eyes and wait.

—

9:56pm

—

The door opening made you look up in a rush. After Glass Eye had used you as a punching bag, no one had come in for the routine pictures. While you hadn't let your guard down entirely, you'd relaxed a bit to try to conserve energy.

From the angry look on Glass Eye's face, you had to think you'd definitely need that energy.

He moved over to the table and let his fingers run over the handles of various instruments before they landed on what looked like a scalpel. Your eyes narrowed as he picked it up and tested the sharpness on the pad of his thumb.

Then he turned towards you with it.

"You can scream if you need to. I won't let it disturb me."

You swallowed thickly as you stared at the item in his hand. You had a feeling you would definitely need to scream.

—

10:42pm

—

A flash made you squint your eyes. The sight of your phone disappearing in Glass Eye's blood stained pocket would have made you frown if you had the energy. Instead you just hung limply as you watched him leave.

A glance at the clock told you it had been almost an hour. There were dozens of cuts and stabs all over your body. Nowhere that would kill you or make you bleed out. He was careful about that.

Tears ran over your face and mixed with the blood there. You weren't sure how many cuts he'd made in your face as you'd passed out at some point, but blood had dripped into your eyes. He'd taken a washcloth and cleaned your eyes because he wanted to make sure you could see him.

Your eyes shut and you let yourself cry even though it hurt. The pain was too much. The scent of blood mixed with the vomit where you'd gotten sick at some point.

In and out of the daze you found yourself in, you thought about the bunker. If you were there, you would all be settling in in the bedroom. There were cots and couches in there now so people could rest. Micro's kids would sleep but the adults would never fully give in to the need. Not until the siren went off again to say the purge was over.

You wouldn't even close your eyes until Billy and Frank walked back through the door. Until you could personally check Billy to make sure he wasn't injured.

You thought about all the times you tried to convince yourself--and sometimes Karen--that you weren't in love with Billy. The number of times you told yourself you were just friends. The number of times you tried to ignore the fact that Billy always looked for you first in a crowd, that when he got to the bunker he immediately went to your side so you could look him over, that he put your safety before everything.

The fact that you would die before you got to say those words to him hurt you worse than anything Glass Eye could do to you.

—

11:27pm

—

"You've lasted longer than I expected," Glass Eye said as he dropped another of your fingernails onto the table. "Only passed out once that time."

You swallowed thickly to hold in more bile. Your lips were split from his punches and your teeth as you bit them to keep from begging him to just kill you.

"I can see what Russo sees in you."

It took a moment for that to sink in. You blinked the tears out of your eyes and turned your head a bit to look at him.

He met your gaze with his one functioning eye, your blood splattered on his face and shirt.

"Did you think this was random? That I just felt the urge to torture some random diner owner? My job means I can torture anyone I want to. No, I picked you on purpose. You're close to him and I…I want to hurt him."

Your eyes moved over his face as you thought about all of this.

Hated Billy. His job was torture. Someone had called him Rawlins. Glass eye.

Glass eye. It came to you slowly, a story from long ago. Back when Billy and Frank first told you and Karen what had happened overseas. Frank punched Agent Orange and shattered his cheekbone, ruining his eye.

Glass Eye was Agent Orange.

"I can see the wheels turning now. I guess I should be flattered that Russo would tell you about me."

He shook his head as he put the pliers down on the table. You waited to see what he would pick up next. Instead of anything on the table he reached into his pocket and grabbed your phone. You looked up at him as he was getting the camera ready.

He looked surprised as he stared at you. You weren't sure why until he spoke.

"Why are you smiling?"

Were you? You probably were. Only because a very important thought had come to you.

"Billy is going to kill you."

The words felt like sandpaper in your throat from the screams, but the sentiment soothed your soul. Billy would avenge you and get his revenge all at the same time.

Rawlins shook his head. He snapped the picture, tapped a few things in the phone before he put it back in his pocket.

"I'm high up in the government. I'm untouchable."

You remembered that now. You'd heard Billy and Frank lamenting that fact sometimes.

But now? You look at the pile of your nails on the table, the amount of blood you'd already lost. Felt every wound he had inflicted. Then you raised your gaze back to his.

"You won't be untouchable once Billy gets his hands on you."

A flash of something like fear went through Rawlins. For the first time since this all started, you had gotten under his skin.

It was small compared to everything he had done to you, but you still felt like you won this round.

—

12:04am

—

In and out of consciousness, your mind drifted away from your body. You tried to imagine arriving at the bunker like this, but your mind refused. You couldn't see yourself with your friends again.

You were going to die here. It had been your fear when you first realized you were kidnapped before the purge officially started, but as your entire body ached from the torture, you knew it was inevitable. Rawlins wanted to make Billy suffer but you had a feeling right now he was just playing with you both. The endgame was death; yours and Billy's probably. But yours would happen first.

The door creaked open but you didn't look up. Not until you heard Rawlins speak.

"Someone wants to talk to you."

It took you a moment to register the words. Then it took another few moments to register he was holding a phone out towards you. Your phone.

Since you highly doubted that he expected you to grab the phone, you just swallowed and tried to speak.

"H-hello?"

Seconds later you heard a voice that made you want to cry. Billy. He said your name once, then again softer.

"Are you okay?"

You thought about everything you'd been through since you'd been taken. The pain you were in, the blood you'd lost, everything. Then you let out a small laugh.

"I've been better," you hedged instead of being honest.

"Now you know she's alive, what about my terms?" Rawlins met your gaze as he said the next part. "You for her life. Turn yourself over to me and I'll release her."

You could see it in his eyes that this was a trap. He had no intention of letting you go. He never did. You felt the heavy weight of the device around your neck, felt every ache as it resounded through your body.

You weren't getting out alive but that didn't mean that Billy had to suffer. He could stay safe, plan. Avenge you.

"Wait, wait, please," you begged, your face a mask of fear that wasn't exactly faked. You needed Rawlins to believe you were about to plead for your life so he would let you speak.

And it seemed like it worked because he gestured for you to speak.

"Billy? Can you hear me?"

His voice cracked as he answered, "I can hear you."

You swallowed and closed your eyes, begged whoever was listening for the strength to do what you needed to. Then you opened your eyes and looked Rawlins in the eye.

"Don't turn yourself in. He's going to kill me either way."

Rawlins looked like he wanted to hit you but he didn't give in to the urge. Instead he shifted a bit on his feet as he waited for Billy's response.

"Rawlins. You've spent these years protected because of your position. That's the only reason that Frank and I haven't gone after you. You were untouchable, safe. But you made a mistake. You took someone else that we care about. You hurt her, you tortured her. You spent years safe in your anonymity but you came down to our level just to get to me. It means you're not untouchable anymore."

Rawlins swallowed thickly. He looked like he was trying to compose himself but there was an underlying anxiety that was coming out of him.

You heard Billy release a breath and you realized you'd heard it before. That noise was one he made when he was centering himself.

"Hey Rawlins? You look a little pale."

You understood the comment seconds before Rawlins did. He immediately started towards you, pulling a gun out from where it was tucked in the back of his pants. He didn't even get it raised before there was a loud pop. You'd been to the shooting range with Karen before so you recognized the sound of a gunshot. In the second after the sound you expected pain but none came. Instead you watched Rawlins spin around and clutch at his shoulder where you saw a darker blood spot blooming.

"HE'S HERE! GET IN HERE!"

The other guys flooded in, somewhere between six and eight in total. You forced yourself not to close your eyes as gunshots exploded. The shot came through a window to the side and they all fired in that direction. Except you doubted they'd reach him.

Billy was a sniper. He didn't have to be nearby.

The lights shattered as they were shot out. You bit back a scream as the sounds of the gunshots got more chaotic. You could imagine from various grunts and hollers that the other guys were getting struck, but you forced your attention to Rawlins as he approached you.

He reached up and undid the rope that held your left hand up. He held his gun to your forehead as he worked on the second rope on your right hand.

You couldn't walk because your legs were still tied together, but there was a relief in not having your body being held up by your arms. And it seemed you didn't need to walk because Rawlins threw his arm around you and started to drag you sideways.

You didn't get a chance to fight back because before Rawlins had pulled you three feet from where you'd been held captive for the last few hours, you felt your body being yanked to the side. Then you watched as a dark figure struck out at Rawlins. The gun went off but the bullet missed its mark as his arm was struck.

The blanks were filled in by your hectic mind as you fell to your knees and dove for the dropped gun. The dark figure that was fighting Rawlins was Matt–Daredevil currently.

Gun in hand, you crawled backwards until your back hit a piece of equipment. Gunshots lit up areas of the room, enough to see that there were people in the room fighting, not just shooting at each other. You recognized Jessica Jones, the alcoholic PI who also had super strength, and Luke Cage, the invulnerable man. Seeing all of them made you realize the scale of this rescue mission.

Someone came to your corner and you raised your gun. Hands flew up, one holding a small pen light. It gave off enough illumination to realize it was David.

"Micro," you exclaimed in confusion.

"I heard there was a need for IT support," he said with a gesture towards your neck. "Just keep that gun handy and shoot any unfriendlies that might come our way."

He knelt down beside you and started fiddling with the device on your neck. You kept your gaze on the rest of the room while he worked, barely letting yourself think that this might still end with you dying after all.

You caught a familiar sight coming through the door. Frank and Billy marched in wearing dark tactical gear. They both went over to where Matt was fighting Rawlins but you thought you saw them both look your way first.

"Only one missing is Karen," you muttered as you cooked your head to the side to give Micro more room.

"She's driving the getaway car and has a rocket launcher for protection," he offered through teeth clenched around the pen light.

A rocket launcher? Jesus.

A yell made you look forward once more. It looked like someone was down and was surrounded. Your stomach flipped until you realized who was still standing. Matt, Jessica, and Luke were on one side, Frank and Billy on the other. There were lumps all over the ground, the other men that had been keeping you captive. That meant the person on the ground was…

Frank knelt down beside the man and started to slam his fists into his face. Over and over and over.

Then you couldn't see it anymore. Instead you were looking at legs. The person that was standing in front of you knelt down until you could see their face.

"Billy."

Your eyes had adjusted to the dark enough to see that he was looking you over. Since you could feel every bruise, abrasion, and cut on your face, you imagined what he was seeing wasn't very good. You gave him a smile that was probably more of a wince.

"Shit. Are you…"

You didn't think he was going to finish that sentence. It was obvious you weren't okay. Instead you took a deep breath and tried to ignore the pain that that brought.

"You came for me."

He did a double take at that. Then he reached out and placed his hand gently on your knees which were bent at an odd angle.

"Of course I…we did. Of course we did."

He pulled a knife from seemingly nowhere but you knew he usually kept one stashed on him. When you flinched, he clenched his jaw. Then he slowly moved the hand with the knife until he could cut the bonds around your ankles and knees.

"Aaaaand done!"

There was a click that accompanied Micro's words and then the device around your neck released some of the tension. He gently removed it from your neck and shoulders and stood up with it in his hands.

"This is a diabolical piece of hardware. If it had gone off, it would have been…I'm going to go…get rid of it."

You furrowed your eyebrows at his weirder than usual antics. When you turned to look at Billy to see if he noticed, he was glaring at Micro.

Ah. That made sense.

Frank came up to the two of you a moment later. Even though his suit was black, you could see the slickness of blood on him. You knew without a doubt Rawlins was dead. At this point they'd probably need to do DNA testing to get a positive ID.

"Shit, how did you survive that? We need to get you out of here."

You tried to give him a smile but the reality of being safe meant that the adrenaline that had carried you through the events of the night was disappearing. All that was left in its wake was exhaustion and pain.

"I don't think I can walk," you admitted as you tried to force yourself to stand.

"I've got you. Just…I'm sorry, it's going to hurt."

Billy lifted you up, his arm around your waist. You winced but held on as tight as you could. Once you were upright, he ducked down and lifted your legs up in his other arm. Fully in his hold, you turned your face into his neck and closed your eyes.

"You're safe now," Billy whispered into your ear.

You tried to stay awake and aware, but exhaustion swept over you. The feeling of being safe overwhelmed you and you slowly drifted off.

—

1:12am

—

You woke up in the back of a car, your head pillowed on someone's lap. You squinted into the front and saw Karen in the passenger seat beside Frank. And Frank was…raising his gun out of the window?

And so was Karen. And so was whoever you were curled up on. You followed the arm above you to see Billy's face. He looked tense as he pointed the gun at something outside.

"You don't wanna do that kid," Frank said from the front seat. "This is not the car for you, you understand me?"

Oh. Someone must have been threatening to carjack you guys. Even if it wasn't the purge, you had a feeling that the reaction would have been the same. A few moments later you felt the car start moving again.

Billy didn't drop the gun but his free hand lightly rested against your wrist. You reached up with your hand and covered his.

"I'm right here sweetheart," he whispered down to you as he soothed his thumb over your wrist. "It's okay."

You closed your eyes again and nodded.

"I know it's okay. I'm safe with you."

The thumb paused and then continued to rub back and forth until you fell asleep again.

—

2:30am

—

"All done," Curtis said quietly as he pulled off his gloves.

You peered up at him from where you were on a table in a secluded corner of the bunker. He'd met you all at the bunker and immediately started to work at patching you up. It had taken most of the first aid materials that were stored in the bunker before he was satisfied.

"It'll take a few months for the nails to grow back," he said as he gestured to your wrapped fingertips. "The broken finger should heal in a few weeks. Everything else will take a few weeks but…you'll probably always have the scars."

You reached up and touched your face where you could feel various butterfly bandages. Curtis covered your hand and gently lowered it back down.

"Not just those. The mental and emotional scars of your ordeal? Those are going to stick with you for a long time."

You nodded and closed your eyes. The moment you did, you saw Rawlins’ face. It made your eyes immediately pop back open.

"I'll send Billy in."

With that Curtis went around the wall that separated this area from the rest of the bunker. You were alone for only a few moments before the anxiety fully gripped you. You slowly sat up on the table. As you started to swing your legs over the edge of the table, Billy came around from the direction Curtis had disappeared.

"You shouldn't be getting up alone. Here. Let me help you to one of the cots."

He went to your side but hesitated. You sighed and tucked your hands against your stomach.

"I'm sorry," you whispered.

Billy nearly jumped away from you at that.

"What in the hell are you apologizing for? You didn't do anything wrong."

"If I'd just closed earlier, none of this would have happened."

He swore at that.

"You think this is your fault? You're an innocent bystander in all of this. You didn't deserve this. Rawlins only took you because he knew it would hurt me." He pressed his freehand on the table near you. "If either of us are to blame, it's me. Me and Frank are the reason…"

You reached out and covered Billy's hand with yours. He hesitated before he covered yours as well.

"How about we just agree that he was a monster and the fault lies with him?"

Billy laughed at that. He bowed his head down and shook his head.

"Have I thanked you for saving me?"

His head shot up and he met your gaze. You watched as he seemed to fight with himself for a second before he leaned in and pressed a very gentle and chaste kiss against your lips.

"You never have to thank me for that. You are one of the few people I actually care about. It's my job to protect you."

You thought about the words that he had almost said before you were kidnapped, the words you longed to say back to him. Then you leaned in and pressed a slightly longer kiss to his lips.

For now you would keep the words to yourself, but not for long. You knew for a fact how short life could be.

—

7am

—

The siren sounded in the distance, a voice saying the annual purge was over. You heard the soft sighs of David and his family. Karen rubbed her red eyes and leaned a little heavier against a freshly showered Frank. He kissed her forehead before he looked over at you and Billy.

"It's over."

This year. You didn't want to think about that so instead you nodded. Billy's arm around you tightened.

"Same routine as usual. Stay here for another hour to make sure everything is done out there. Then we go home and try to rest."

You thought about your diner, wondered if it was even still standing. As if he was reading your mind, Billy pressed a kiss to your temple.

"We'll check it but then I'm taking you home. I want to keep an eye on you for a few days."

"No complaints here," you said quietly as you leaned against his shoulder.

You met Karen's eye across the room. You knew that this has been a big deal for everyone. Not just your kidnapping although you knew they all cared about you. Also because this was the final revenge for both men. Frank got to kill the man that caused the death of his family and Billy apparently got to put a few bullets into him to start with.

The purge was over. Maybe things would change and it would be the last one. Hopefully. If not, you knew next year you'd do things differently.

Billy would see to that. He would keep you safe.

You felt him press a kiss to your temple again and you smiled in spite of your pain. It wasn't exactly a happy ending, but it was a good one either way.

Thank you for reading this year’s Halloween fic! I hope you enjoyed.

#billy russo #billy russo x reader #billy russo imagine #billy russo fanfic #my writing #stay don't go #halloween fic

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grippingbeskar · 2 years

Note

ALSO i saw 💃🏻 15 and it would be criminal to not ask for that with matt 🙏🏼🤲🏼 please and thank u HEHEH luvyew

— u know i would write ANYTHING u asked. so here is this. inspired by that scene in dd bc i wanted to be karen so badddd dhfjejcjd if there’s any typos pls don’t look i tried to edit as best i can but i’m stupid okay.

—prompt:

💃 15. your heart is beating so fast right now

— warnings: swearing, slightly sexual but it’s matt and he’s a whore so what do u expect

[grippingbeskar’s 2k night out celebration!]

“I can play, technically. I just suck at it.” You yell at Matt over the music at Josie’s, and watch him sink the 8 ball for the third game in a row.

“Come on. No guys at college ever did the old ‘teach you to play pool’ trick on you?” You roll your eyes, and he laughs as if he knows you did it.

“Boys were too busy banging their way through my dorm hallway, so I missed out on that formative experience.” Your mind drifts back to your college days, and all the nights spent with headphones on the loudest setting to drown out the moans of your roommates. “So, not only was I a loser in college, I’m a loser who can’t play pool.”

“So dramatic.” He taunts, moving his way around the table. He leaves the pool que where it was, and suddenly the room feels a whole lot smaller. When he finally reaches you, he squares his shoulders, tilting his head down so you can hear him. “Bend over the table.”

“Matthew! You haven’t even bought me a drink yet.” You jump back and he laughs, one hand brushing against your hip to encourage you back.

“Dramatic.” He drawls, and you roll your eyes again, but do what he says. You lean over the table, adjusting your pool que so it was facing the ball in the middle of the table.

All of a sudden, you feel him pressed up behind you. You knew he was being deliberate, purposefully not pushing certain parts of himself into your nearly exposed ass, but it was enough that the warmth of his body almost absorbed into you, your entire being sparking with heat.

His arms come around your head and rest along your arms, and he uses his hands to feel how you are holding the que, leaning forward a little more to feel where to ball is.

“A little lower, sweetheart.” His breath is hot against your neck, and you stay perfectly still, afraid of moving wrong. You let him guide you, shifting the stick where it’s meant to be. There was no way you would retain any information, but maybe that was an excuse to have him bend you over again. “There you go.”

“Do... do I hit it now?” You rasp, and you feel him laugh behind you. Feel it— the way his abs tense against your lower back, how his nose brushes against your neck as his head drops.

“Pull back... nice and slow.” He keeps his voice that low, gravelly tone and your toes inadvertently curl with the sound in your ear. “Elbow down.”

You almost forgot you actually had a task to do. You do as he says, and he hums in approval. His head drops again, feeling the ghost of his lips on your bare shoulder. The thin strap of your dress hides no skin from him, and one small, open mouthed kiss has you shuddering under him— putty in his hands.

“Your heart is beating so fast right now.” He kisses you again, a little higher up this time. “You concentrating?”

“Fuck no.” His lips curl upward, and one of his hands tap at your elbow to put it down again. You blink furiously, trying to see the ball through the red haze of lust clouding your vision.

Then, in one smooth motion, he wraps his hands around your forearms and pushes you forward, the stick hitting the ball perfectly, and it rolls into the far corner hole without hesitation.

“Oh.” You say, completely unimpressed with sinking the ball, because now Matt has no reason to stay this close to you. He hasn’t moved yet though, just allowed you to stand up a little more comfortably.

“See? Wasn’t so hard, was it?” He drags his hand from your wrist up slowly, leaving it wrapped around your upper arm and holding you close.

“Um— no. I think I’ll need you to show me again, though.”

“Yeah?” You were nodding furiously, gripping the pool que like a life raft. You heard him laugh over the music, head tipping back as you both moved around the table to hit the next ball.

You spent most of the night like that, tangled up in each other under the guise of hitting a ball, and by the end of the night you were practically an expert, but you were still going to ask him to teach you again tomorrow.

#grippingbeskarsnightout #matthew murdock x y/n #matt murdock x y/n #matt murdock x you #matthew murdock x reader #matthew murdock x you

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sesamestreep · 1 year

Text

there's something fiction about the way that reality's going

(read on AO3)

SUMMARY: It's bad enough that Foggy has to spend his Saturday morning giving bad news to some overly-ambitious campaign manager. It's unforgivable that he turns out to be hot, of all things. [AKA - The West Wing AU] A/N: here's part 1 of that west wing au i've been talking about writing for months. I put copious notes (including a mild content warning for the 90s as a time period in general) on AO3, so I'd recommend reading there if you want more info. big thanks to @firstelevens for talking me off several ledges during the writing, editing, and posting processes for this fic!

“You know what’s sick, Karen?” Foggy asks, as he rounds the corner of her desk.

“Sick like bad, like the flu?” she asks, not looking away from her computer. “Or sick like good, like a skateboard trick?”

“Sick like disgusting and perverted.”

“Ooh, I am not sure I want to know.”

“Too bad,” he says, as he tosses his duffel bag into his office. It collides with a filing cabinet, but doesn’t knock anything over, which is pretty good from this distance. “I have reached a new level of depravity.”

“Congratulations?”

“Thank you. Ask me how.”

“Must I?”

“Yes.”

Karen sighs. “How did you reach a new level of depravity?”

“I found myself thinking, while flying with the President on Air Force One, ‘god, this sucks!’”

“That’s your new level of depravity?” she asks, unimpressed.

“Karen, I’m telling you I’m bored of flying on Air Force One! The President’s private plane is boring to me. The novelty—of Air Force One—is gone!”

“And that’s all?”

“‘That’s all’?! Karen, I—”

“I heard you the first twelve times," she says. "You’re a real sicko, Foggy, I get it.”

“This revelation means less to you than I anticipated,” Foggy says, idly fiddling with the things on her desk.

“Sorry to disappoint you,” she says, filing something. “I kind of thought you picked up a new, exciting fetish while in Pakistan.”

“Unfortunately, no. At least, not that I’m aware of.”

“There’s always next time,” she replies. “Did you bring me back anything?”

“Also no. In my defense, you didn’t tell me you wanted a new, exciting fetish while I was there.”

“A good boss would know without having to be told.”

“Oh, no. They’ll take away my ‘world’s greatest boss’ mug for this!”

“You don’t have one of those,” she says, frowning.

“And whose fault is that?”

“Looks like we’ve both got some work to do,” she says, turning her attention back to her computer.

“Speaking of that, what are you doing here on a Saturday?”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Almost always, but in this case…”

Karen looks at him like he’s sprouted a second head. “Foggy, you have a meeting.”

“I don’t schedule meetings for Saturday mornings,” he says. “And certainly not after I’ve been away in Islamabad with the President for three days and on a plane for 15 hours.”

“Yes, but this is Marci’s meeting,” Karen says. “The one you promised to cover for her, since her cousin had to move her bachelorette weekend up two weeks to—”

“This weekend. Fuck!” Foggy closes his eyes. “Oh, I should not have agreed to this! This was so stupid. I’m so jet lagged right now and I’ve been wearing the same suit for like two days.”

She wrinkles her nose. “Ew, why?”

“I packed in a hurry and I miscounted—you know what, forget it! I would still smell like airplane, regardless.”

She steps around her desk to put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sure it’s not even that—Good god! That is not what airplanes are supposed to smell like!”

Foggy sniffs his shirt and winces. He was kind of hoping he was just being dramatic. “Pakistan is a very populous country,” he says, weakly. “And we were in the capitol, so lots of people, in close quarters…”

“So, unless this guy has a sinus infection, he’s going to be able to smell you from down the hall.”

“Karen, please! I am begging you…”

“Do you have another suit?”

“Not one that smells better !” Foggy exclaims. “Do I have time to go out and buy a new suit?”

“Your meeting is in 30 minutes, and I’m guessing you still need to read the briefing packet Marci left you, so you know what this guy wants to talk about.”

“This is the guy from the Bryant campaign? Mitchell…something?”

“ Matthew Murdock, yes.”

“I know what he wants to talk about,” Foggy says, waving a hand at her.

“Oh, just read the damn packet!”

“I need to find something to wear that doesn’t smell like I walked here from Islamabad, okay?”

“I’ll ask around,” Karen replies. “You prep for the meeting.”

“You’re going to ask around ?”

“Yes."

“To see if someone in the building has a suit I can borrow?

“Foggy!”

“I feel like you’re vastly underestimating how weird of a request that is!”

“Not all men are as suspicious as you.”

“Most men are more suspicious than me, firstly,” he says. “And secondly, even if you found someone in this office to accept this absurd request—on a Saturday, no less!—suits are supposed to be tailored. I’m going to look weird in someone else’s suit!”

“What’s worse: looking weird in an ill-fitting suit or smelling weird in this one?”

“Maybe he will have a sinus infection,” Foggy muses.

“Yes, because praying for that is less weird than my plan,” Karen says, with an eye roll. “Wait, you have a gym bag!”

“In my office? Yeah…”

“And last week, that budget meeting got rescheduled and you couldn’t go to the gym after work because it was already closed when the meeting wrapped up!”

“Yes! Why are we excited about this?”

Karen’s practically bouncing on her feet. “Because if the bag is still here but you didn’t go to the gym, that means the clothes are clean!”

“You want me to meet with the manager for a congressional campaign in my gym clothes?” Foggy asks.

“Your clean gym clothes!”

“I can’t meet him in my gym clothes!”

“Why not?”

“It’s unprofessional!”

“It’s Saturday! You’re…laid back! You’re chillin’!”

Foggy shakes his head at her, because it’s extremely clear to him that she’s never said that word in another context before in her life. “Just chillin’ at the White House! Now there’s a TV show I’d watch!”

“ Foggy !”

“It could be like this President’s version of FDR’s fireside chats! You’re a genius, Karen!”

“I’m being helpful and you’re being such a dick about it,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest.

“You’re right,” he says, putting his hands on her shoulders in a conciliatory gesture. “And I appreciate it. But I can’t wear gym clothes to this meeting.”

“It wouldn’t be that weird! You could come up with an excuse—”

“No, I understand. It’s just—I barely look good in a suit. I can trick people into taking me seriously in a suit. If this guy sees me in basketball shorts, he’ll never take me seriously.”

“You look good in a suit, no qualifiers,” Karen says, firmly. “And honestly, it would probably be charming to him if you were in gym clothes. And lastly, you are the deputy chief of staff at the White House, Foggy. People take you seriously. You are serious.”

“That was wall-to-wall bald faced lies, but I do love you for it,” he says, giving her shoulders a squeeze. “And if I’m being honest with you, I’m nervous about the optics of dressing casually for a meeting where I know I have to give someone bad news.”

Karen frowns. “What’s going on?”

“The campaign this guy is running, it’s Bryant’s campaign in the 21st district in New York State. It’s a district that, historically, a Republican always wins. From what I know, and what Marci’s told me, this guy wants more help from us, and more funding from the DNC, to get Bryant elected instead.”

“But we’re not going to do that?” Karen asks.

“No, we’re not.”

“Why not?”

“Because Bryant sucks,” Foggy admits, with a small, mirthless laugh.

“Worse than the Republican who’s running?”

“He’s the incumbent and we know what to do with him, at least.”

“Still,” she interjects, frowning deeper, “it’s not…great…”

“It’s political maneuvering to be sure,” Foggy says, “but that’s the business we’re in, like it or not.”

“Yeah, so…”

“So, showing up to this meeting looking ready for an aerobics class and then telling this guy he’s up a creek and the DNC isn’t going to throw him a paddle might be a bad look. At least if my suit’s wrinkled and I smell bad, he can write it off as me being an overworked staffer.”

“Which, you are.”

“Exactly!”

“Yeah, okay. I get it,” Karen says, moving back to her desk.

“I have a few minutes?”

“Yeah, read the thing on your desk.”

“I don’t need to—”

“Marci wrote it so you could—”

“Marci’s secretary wrote it, and you know that.”

“And Marci’s secretary’s work has less value than Marci’s because…?”

“Ah, okay,” Foggy says, holding his hands up in surrender. “I’ll read the thing.”

“Do you need coffee?”

“Desperately.”

She nods. “Okay, I’ll get you some, so you can read.”

“Thank you. And while you’re at it, see if Jeri’s secretary is in and ask—”

“Excuse me,” a voice behind them says, and they both startle.

“Hi, can I help you?” Karen asks, automatically and politely, as she turns to face the man.

“I hope so,” he says. “I’m looking for Karen Page.”

“Then I can definitely help you,” she replies, cheerfully. “That’s me.”

“Oh, excellent,” the man says, offering her his hand. “I’m Matt Murdock, from the Bryant campaign. I have a meeting with Mr. Nelson at 10.”

“You’re…from the Bryant campaign?” Karen asks, hesitantly.

Foggy knows how she feels. Absolutely nothing about this guy says ‘campaign manager’ except for the quality of his suit. He’s so glaringly handsome in a professional-athlete-who-also-gets-modeling-gigs kind of way that it takes Foggy a full minute to clock that he’s wearing sunglasses indoors (something a professional athlete/part-time model would do) and carrying a white cane. Bryant’s campaign manager is blind. That’s almost as unexpected as him being hot.

“Yes, I know. I’m a little bit early,” he says, either willfully or obliviously attributing Karen’s surprise to the wrong thing.

Karen recovers quickly, though. “Not to worry,” she says, finally taking his hand and giving it a polite shake. “We appreciate your punctuality.”

“Well, I appreciate that handshake,” Matt offers, charmingly. “Very commanding, very firm!”

Much to Foggy’s amusement and vague annoyance, Karen lets out a hopelessly charmed laugh at that. “Thank you, I—uh, I do my best.”

Foggy gives her a wide-eyed look, and she gives him a helpless and slightly embarrassed one back. He shakes his head before inclining it towards Matt, who either hasn’t noticed him or is avoiding acknowledging him, for whatever reason.

“Would you be so kind as to let your boss know I’m here?”

“That, uh, won’t be necessary,” she says. Karen never stammers. This is so funny. “He’s, um—well, he’s right here! Foggy, are you ready for Mr. Murdock?”

Foggy does his best to hide his smile. “Am I ever!” he says, gamely, and steps forward to shake his hand. “Franklin Nelson, at your service. Everyone calls me Foggy, so you should too!”

This, somehow, catches Matt off-guard, which given his otherwise smooth and unflappable exterior, is kind of impressive. He very clearly expected to wait to be seen, and possibly hoped to have more time to flirt with Foggy’s assistant, judging by the looks of things.

“Hello,” Matt says, stiff with awkwardness. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Same here,” Foggy replies. “Delighted to make your acquaintance! I am holding out my hand for you to shake, for the record.”

“Oh, right. I’m so sorry,” he says, as he hurries to take it.

There’s an awkward moment as he sort of guesstimates where Foggy’s hand is before making contact and Foggy’s left to wonder if he could have made that less weird somehow and feel slightly embarrassed that he doesn’t know the protocol for this situation. And he’s already feeling pretty embarrassed that he smells like a 15 hour flight in front of this very handsome stranger, who can probably smell him even more than the average person. Unless that stuff about depriving one sense making the others stronger is bullshit, which it might be. Foggy’s tempted to ask but that seems likely to make the situation more awkward still.

Matt’s palm is a little rough in places, which is kind of nice. Foggy’s is, he knows, not even a little bit rough. He’s got the smooth baby soft hands of someone who has always been an indoor kid and then grew up to be a lawyer. No calluses to speak of whatsoever. It makes him wonder where Matt, likely a lawyer himself, got his from. And now he’s been holding this hot guy’s hand for too long. Perfect.

“Well, why don’t you step into my office?” he asks, dropping it quickly.

“You’re sure? I know I got here before our appointment.”

“No trouble at all,” Foggy says, with more enthusiasm than he feels. “Do you want anything to drink?”

“Oh, yes,” Karen pipes up. “We have coffee, tea, soda, water—”

“I’m good,” Matt says, with another charming smile in her direction. Foggy’s still waiting for his. “Thank you, Karen.”

“Yes, thank you, Karen,” Foggy says brightly, and she sticks her tongue out at him.

“Actually, Foggy, could I borrow you for a second?”

“Absolutely.” To Matt, he says, “You can go right in and I’ll be with you shortly. There’s a chair in front of the desk, where…chairs normally are in an office.”

This, for whatever reason, makes Matt snort in amusement, which is somehow better than getting a smile out of him. “Yes, I think I can manage,” he replies, and moves towards Foggy’s office.

“Great. Be right there!” Once he’s gone, Foggy leans in close to Karen. “What’s up?”

“Just wanted to point out that you should have listened to me and worn your gym clothes after all,” she says, flipping through a file on her desk disinterestedly.

“Yes, yes, I know. Karen Page the Wise, let her instincts never be doubted again,” Foggy says, miming genuflection.

“Do you still want a coffee?”

“I’ll grab it when I’m done. Hopefully, this won’t take long,” he says. He leans in even closer and drops his voice to a whisper. “By the way, is this guy a real campaign manager or is he just auditioning to play one on TV?”

“ Foggy ,” Karen exclaims, with an eye roll.

“I’m sorry, but he’s, like, stupid handsome!”

“I hadn’t noticed,” she sniffs, feigning disinterest.

“Uh huh,” Foggy says, unimpressed. “Well, he noticed your firm handshake, that’s for sure.”

“You really are more perverted than when you left, aren’t you?” Karen says, amused. “Now, get in there and disappoint that beautiful man.”

“Lucky for him, that is something I’m very good at.”

Karen snorts at that, and returns to her work. Foggy goes back to his office and is pleased to see that Matt has managed to find a seat.

“Sorry about that,” he announces, as he settles into the chair behind his desk. “We’re a little bit scattered this morning. I just got back from Islamabad about twenty minutes ago.”

“Well, I appreciate your time.”

“Don’t mention it. Listen, Michael…”

“Matthew,” he says, surely seeing through the power play but not pointing it out. “Matt, if it’s all the same.”

“Right, sorry. Hey, at least, I knew it was one of the gospels from the Bible, right?”

The unbothered, generically pleasant expression on his face doesn't falter as he says, evenly, “There is no gospel according to Michael in the Bible.”

“Maybe not in yours,” Foggy replies, hoping he covers his nerves well enough that Matt can’t hear anything in his voice. “There’s a Saint Michael, though, right?”

“Yes,” Matt says, cracking a barely-there smile. “He’s an archangel, too.”

“An angel and a saint? Sounds like a lot of work. What’s his deal?”

“His ‘deal’?”

“Yeah, like what’s he the saint of?”

“Oh, like his patronage?”

“Yes,” Foggy says, snapping his fingers. “Like is he the guy to pray to when I’ve got a hangnail or a flat tire?”

“No,” Matt laughs, shaking his head. “He’s considered the patron saint of police officers, the military, paramedics, the protector of the Jewish people and the Vatican, as well as Germany, the Ukraine, and Brussels.”

“Wow, can you do that for all the saints?”

“A good amount of them,” Matt replies. He shrugs before adding, “I went to Catholic school.”

“That must come in handy.”

“You’d really be surprised how little it comes up,” he says, drolly.

“Really?" Foggy asks. "Not even when you have a flat tire?”

“I would probably call AAA first, in that scenario. The saints tend to take their time.”

“Solid point.”

“Listen, Mr. Nelson—”

“God, please, like I said: call me ‘Foggy’. I’d do the classic ‘Mr. Nelson is my father’ bit but I’m pretty sure no one calls him that either.”

“‘Foggy?’ Really?” Matt repeats, incredulously.

“Yes, it’s—not important why. It’s just—it’s what everyone calls me.”

“Fine,” he says, leaning forward in his seat. “Foggy, then. As much as I appreciate the opportunity to show off the benefits of my Catholic upbringing and education, I didn’t come here to talk to you about the patronages of various saints.”

“Yes, I knew that, actually. I’m sorry. I was stalling.”

Matt slumps back in his seat at that. “You’re going to tell me you can’t help me.”

“Listen, if this had been my meeting from the start, I would have told you not to bother coming down.”

“In your colleague’s defense, she did tell me that.”

“Well, then, I’m surprised you did it anyway.”

“You wouldn’t be, if you knew me better,” Matt replies, with so much confidence it borders on cocky. He gets five percent hotter in Foggy’s mental estimation from that alone.

He clears his throat. “Your candidate is running for a seat in New York’s 21st district. Democrats never win in the 21st. It’s simple math.”

“Yes, historically, this district goes red in elections, but that doesn’t mean, with the right democrat and proper funding from the DNC—”

“That’s true,” Foggy allows.

“So, what’s the issue?”

“You don’t have the right democrat.”

“I…what?”

“I’m saying, Bryant isn’t the democrat to flip the 21st.”

“According to whom?”

“According to me.”

“Is there anyone else I can talk to, then?” Matt asks, clearly keeping his patience on a very tight leash if the state of his jaw is any indication. Not that Foggy is admiring his jawline at a time like this.

“Unfortunately, no.”

“Foggy, I came down here—”

“A waste of time, as promised, but hey, at least you made a new friend!”

“You and I are not friends.”

“I meant you and Karen," Foggy says, blithely, "but ouch.”

Matt's jaw somehow clenches even tighter. “I want to talk to someone who’s going to take me seriously!”

“You are talking to someone who’s taking you seriously,” he says, earnestly. “Trust me, Matt. It’s not you, it’s your candidate.”

“Well, that’s a new one,” he says, deflating.

“Bryant is a centrist—”

“It’s a Republican stronghold!” Matt exclaims. “Who else has a chance to flip the seat? Do you want to put a diehard socialist on the ballot instead and see how they do?”

“More than anything in the world, yes,” Foggy replies. “But this isn’t about what I want.”

“The incumbent is a right wing clown and he lends legitimacy to their rhetoric. I think the country would be better off with him out of a job. I’m sorry that the White House and the DNC disagree, but—”

“You’re right.”

“I’m right?!”

“You’re right,” Foggy says. “With an asterisk.”

“Oh, boy.”

“Just a tiny footnote, really. He is a right wing clown, and he should be voted out of office, but he’s also a boon to the DNC.”

“How exactly does that make sense?”

“Every time he opens his mouth, the DNC pulls a quote, puts it on a direct mail campaign, and raises tens of thousands of dollars off of their members’ outrage. As long as we keep him in front of a microphone, we can basically print money for ourselves.”

Matt rolls his eyes. “What a reassuring thing to hear from a representative of my government.”

Foggy laughs, unexpectedly, which just makes Matt glare in his general direction. “Technically, we are the only ones who should be printing money, but that’s beside the point.”

“Are we at least approaching the point sometime soon?”

“You’re familiar with the phrase ‘better the devil you know…’”

Matt sighs. “‘Than the devil you don’t’. Yes.”

“Bryant’s the devil we don’t know. Dashwood’s the one we do.”

“Bryant is a democrat, Foggy.”

“Barely, and I don’t want it to be my job for the next six and a half years to make sure he’s not going to be the swing vote on every measure we want to get passed through the House. And it will be my job, Matt.”

“Well, if you keep selling out viable democrats like this, I don’t think you can count on re-election as a matter of course like you just did, so let’s call it two and a half years to be safe.”

Foggy leans forward onto his forearms. “Sweetheart, you don’t have a viable democrat on your hands, and that’s the nicest way anyone in this building is going to put it, so let’s quit while we’re ahead.”

“Easy for you to say,” Matt replies, standing. Foggy mirrors him. “I appreciate the condescension, by the way. No one’s called me ‘sweetheart’ in a long time.”

“No trouble at all,” Foggy says. “Feel free to stop by anytime you need your ego stroked.”

Matt laughs, or really huffs, putting his hands on his hips. He’s either getting a second wind on this argument or they’re about to get into a fistfight. He might have made that last retort too flirty. Some guys, by which he does mean most straight guys, will really take any opportunity. Luckily, a knock at the door cuts their standoff short.

“Foggy, the President wants anybody who’s available in the Oval Office in five,” Marci says as she barrels in without waiting, before her eyes land on Matt. “Oh, sorry to interrupt.”

“Marci, this is Matt Murdock, from the Bryant campaign,” Foggy says, begrudgingly. “Matt, this is Marci Stahl, deputy communications director. I believe your original meeting was supposed to be with her.”

“Yes. Hi,” Matt says, cheerfully enough, but the set of his shoulders remains tense.

“Matt, so nice to meet you,” she trills, giving Foggy a wide-eyed look over his shoulder as they shake hands. Of course she immediately clocked how attractive he is. Sometimes he thinks that an unfortunate side effect of them dating and then staying friends for so long is that they basically have the same brain. “I’m so sorry for sticking you with Foggy here. There were some scheduling issues with my calendar.”

“Not to worry,” Matt says, tightly. “Foggy’s taken excellent care of me.”

Marci purses her lips in amusement. “Isn’t he just the best?” she says, grinning at Foggy sadistically. “If I had my way, I’d foist all my downer meetings on him, because he always handles people so gently. Not my strong suit, I’m afraid.”

Foggy rolls his eyes, but Matt beats him to the punch. “‘Downer meetings’?” he asks, deceptively pleasant.

“Yes, well, it’s a pity about Bryant, but you’re young, as I can now see. You’ll have other campaigns, ones you can actually win.”

“We haven’t technically lost this one yet.”

Marci gives Foggy a look, before shaking her head. “So true,” she says, giving Matt’s arm a squeeze. “Anyway! Safe travels! Foggy, like I said, five minutes.”

“I’m in the middle of a meeting,” he replies, annoyed.

“It’s the Cruz case.”

“That’s going to—”

“It came back 5-3 against,” she says, cutting him off with a significant look at Matt. “That’s why I canceled my trip. We’re all hands on deck.”

Foggy sighs, but only because it would be inappropriate to swear. “Okay.”

“Five minutes.”

“I said, ‘okay’.”

Marci nods and departs in her usual cloud of Chanel perfume and hyper competence, her heels clicking down the hallway until the sound fades completely. Foggy rubs his face, thinking miserably about how this is just the beginning of what will most likely be a very long, bad day. He’s going to need to send Karen to his apartment to get him some clothes. He’s going to need twelve coffees, ideally right now, but he’s got to deal with Matt first. When he looks over at him, he’s standing there, shell shocked.

“I’m sorry about that,” he says, because he honestly is. “She’s—it’s not always like this.”

Matt seems to spring back into action like a spell has been lifted. “It’s fine,” he says, picking up his briefcase and his stick. “You have to get going.”

“It’s not—”

“Don’t say it’s not important, for my benefit. It sounds important.”

“I can walk you out,” Foggy says, coming around the desk towards him.

“I can manage on my own,” Matt says, not unkindly but not meekly either. The implication that he wants to end this interaction sooner rather than later is barely implied.

“Of course. It was, uh, lovely to meet you.”

“Sure,” he replies, not reciprocating the sentiment but extending his hand as they pause in front of Karen’s desk. Foggy takes it and gives him a firm handshake.

“Karen, could you—?"

“I’m fine,” Matt interrupts. “Thank you, though. Karen, a pleasure.”

“You too,” Karen offers. “The hallway behind you leads right to the exit. You’ll need to sign out with security.”

“Thank you,” he says, and departs without further fanfare.

“How’d he take it?” Karen asks Foggy, once he’s gone.

“Super well,” Foggy chirps. “In fact, we’re thinking this summer for the wedding.”

“That’s fast,” Karen says, barely hiding her smile.

“What can I say? When you know you know.” He sighs deeply. “Marci told you about the Supreme Court thing?”

“Yeah. You want me to go grab you a change of clothes from your place?”

“Yes, please. You need my keys?”

“I have your spare still,” Karen says, as she gets up and puts on her coat. “Need anything else while I’m out?”

“The world’s largest coffee, with as many espresso shots as the law allows.”

“Got it,” she replies with a nod. She’s already on her way out when he grabs her by the elbow to stop her.

“Am I, like, the world’s biggest asshole?” he asks, earnestly. “And be honest, because I feel like the world’s biggest asshole right now.”

“You’re not,” Karen says, immediately, squeezing his arm. “You’re the best person I know, but you’re jet lagged and overtired and stinky and now you have to spend the rest of your day talking about the death penalty. That would put anyone in a bad mood.”

“Yeah,” Foggy says. “Thanks.”

He lets her go, then, because they’ve all got work to do, but her words don’t reassure him like they usually would.

Foggy waits on the sidewalk out in front of St. Patrick’s the next morning with ten minutes to spare before the 10 AM mass gets out. He finds himself wishing he had cigarettes, which he only ever wants when he’s nervous and needs something to do with his hands. He’s complained about this before, unwisely, with his mother in earshot, which had led to her snapping at him to take up knitting if he needs something productive to do with his hands. The worst fight he can ever remember having with her was when she found cigarettes in his room when he was home from college once. What is it about being within spitting distance of a Catholic church that brings up all his repressed guilt like that?

He probably could have brought coffee, but he’s not sure if Matt declined yesterday to be polite or if he genuinely doesn’t drink it. Either way, Foggy couldn’t begin to guess how he’d take it, so it’s probably better to just skip it entirely. He doesn’t need to bribe him, and he doesn’t need anything to occupy his hands. He’s senior staff at the goddamn White House. He doesn’t need to be nervous.

Over his shoulder, he hears the sound of voices starting to drift over from the doors and of footsteps on the stairs. When he glances over, he sees crowds starting to form at the entrance. He remembers, suddenly, from a few christenings he was forced to attend for various cousins, how much people like to stand around and gab after mass and hopes that, by virtue of not being at his own church, Matt won’t be stuck talking to a bunch of old ladies for too long.

Thankfully, it’s only a few minutes later when he emerges from the crowd, easy to spot with his glasses and his stick, head down and separate. Foggy hesitates for a second, worried this will be an intolerable intrusion on something, well, sacred, but he did go out of his way to talk to him. It will be even less excusable if he doesn’t go through with it.

Matt’s head swivels in the correct direction when he hears his name called and Foggy would guess he’s good at identifying voices, both in general and in his line of work, where schmoozing and networking are so essential. Matt’s already at a disadvantage, not knowing people by sight, so he can only imagine he’s found a way to compensate for it. He’s guessing he knows who it is before Foggy even says, “on your right,” and approaches him.

“Foggy?” Matt asks, and he’s not sure if he’s guessing or just expressing surprise.

“Hi,” he says, and it comes out weirdly shy, because of course it does. Matt’s still dressed nicely, like he was yesterday, though he’s ditched the tie and thrown a sweater over his dress shirt instead. It’s like he knows about Foggy’s childhood crush on Mr. Rogers.

“Hi,” Matt says, with a laugh. “Did we—don’t tell me this is your church.”

“Yes, I moonlight as an organist at St. Patrick’s. Just for the tips, though.”

“I—what?”

“Sorry, I’m kidding. I don’t go to church here. I went to see you at your hotel, I was hoping to catch you before you checked out, and the receptionist said I’d just missed you and that you’d gone to church.”

“She told you where to find me?”

“No, I guessed. I mean, St. Patrick’s is the closest Catholic church—you mentioned Catholic school yesterday, so I figured it was the best bet—and of course, it’s, you know, historic and beautiful, with all that stained glass and the, um…”

Matt tips his head to the side, considering him as he fumbles for words. He looks amused, at least, and not deeply offended, which is probably a good sign. He also looks like he’s waiting for Foggy to admit defeat, which is never going to happen.

“The acoustics are probably also good,” he finishes, pathetically, and Matt laughs, not like he did yesterday, all guarded and cynical with disappointment. He laughs big and unrestrained and maybe even delighted. Foggy gets the sense that he’s a little surprised by it himself.

“Yes, the acoustics were wonderful,” he says, and his eyes are crinkling attractively at the corners.

“I’m an idiot,” Foggy says, in the direction of his shoes. He doesn’t need to hide a blush from Matt, he figures, but he does it anyway.

“No, that was…” Matt takes his time searching for the word, and Foggy’s heart races. He shakes his head, helplessly. “‘Acoustics.’ You're cute.”

“I…” Foggy has fully lost his train of thought. He tries to remember a single time he has said something coherent in his entire life and fails. His brain has shut down, possibly permanently and forever.

“Sorry, that came out wrong," Matt clarifies, after a moment's pause. "What I meant was, that was a cute thing to say.”

The part of Foggy that was wondering if it would be weird to ask a guy who just got out of church if he was, perhaps, a friend of Dorothy immediately withers and dies on the spot. That was the straightest point of clarification he’s ever witnessed in his life.

“Well,” Foggy says, remarkably normally after the emotional journey he just went on, “you don’t know this, since you can’t see, but you were right the first time. I am adorable.”

Matt, thankfully, laughs at that too. “I’ll defer to your expertise on the matter.”

“I appreciate that.”

“So, you were looking for me at my hotel?”

“Yes!”

“Can I ask why?”

“I—right. That is the sort of thing that requires explanation.”

“Yes, it is,” Matt says, patiently.

“I wanted to…apologize for yesterday,” Foggy says, letting the words flow out on an exhale. “You didn’t catch any of us on our best day, and while nothing I said to you was factually incorrect or inaccurate to our position, I feel like you weren’t treated with the respect you deserve and I really regret that. None of that is how we do things, and it’s not who we are. I hope, at my best, it’s not who I am, either.”

Matt doesn’t bother to hide his surprise. After a moment, he says, “I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t worry about it. I fully acknowledge that I ambushed you—at a church, of all places—so I’ll just…”

“I appreciate it,” Matt says, suddenly. “The apology, not the ambush. Although, I guess they’re sort of intertwined at this point…”

“Sure,” Foggy laughs.

“You really didn’t have to—”

“I felt bad. It was badly done, and I wanted to try to make it right.”

“Still, I’ve been in professional politics for almost a decade now, and I can count the number of heartfelt apologies I’ve received on one hand. It’s not the sort of thing everyone does.”

“Well, it’s a thing I do, when I’m wrong. And I was. I’m genuinely sorry.”

Matt acknowledges this with another tilt of his head. “You weren’t wrong about everything, unfortunately.”

Foggy frowns, trying to parse what this means. “I’m not sure I—oh my god! Matt!”

He winces. “Do not gloat!”

“I’m not!” Foggy practically shouts. “I won’t. I promise! But, if I’m understanding you correctly, you know?”

“About Bryant? Of course I do! I work for him!”

“That begs the question of why?”

“Why do I work for him?”

“Yes!”

“I’m not in politics just for the love of it, Foggy. I’m a professional political operative, I need the work!”

“Yeah, but Bryant?”

Matt makes a face at him. “Do you imagine there’s a seller’s market out there for blind campaign managers?”

“No, but—” Foggy pauses and really considers this. Matt keeps things upbeat, from what he can tell, brushing off references to his disability easily enough by all appearances, but it must actually be brutal out there for him. “No, you’re right. It’s got to be tough. Even for someone as good as you.”

“You don’t have to say that.”

“I’m not saying it to flatter you. Considering you’re working in a district that virtually always votes red, and you’ve got a dud for a candidate, your numbers are very impressive. I mean, unless you’re handing out headshots at campaign stops, I don’t understand how you’re doing it at all.”

“Headshots?” Matt asks. “Of me?”

“Okay, don’t you dare try some sort of aw, shucks routine with me. I know you know you’re handsome.”

Matt laughs, tucking his chin in a remarkably shy gesture from such a confident asshole. “That’s a good one, though. Headshots. I’ll have to write that down.”

“Maybe the 21st district will flip after all.”

“Okay, I know I’m not that handsome.”

Foggy wants to argue the point, but he’s also done enough embarrassing himself for one day and it’s not even noon yet. He’s got to stick to the matter at hand. “Listen, what I said yesterday—”

“Consider it forgotten. Really.”

“No, uh, what I said reflects the opinion and the decision of the White House, even if the delivery left something to be desired. But the administration, specifically the President, wanted me to be clear with you that, Bryant aside, if you ever found a viable candidate, we’d get interested in a hurry. We remain very impressed by your work, if not your candidate.”

Matt appears intrigued by this. “Did anyone happen to specify a better candidate by name?”

“Well, the suggestion was raised that you might fit the bill.”

“Raised by whom?”

“That I couldn’t say,” Foggy demurs, and Matt does that little head tilt again, so he mimes locking his mouth and throwing away the key before he realizes Matt can’t see or appreciate it. It’s also a very dorky thing to do, so that might be for the best.

“You want me to run for office?” Matt asks, instead.

“It’s just a suggestion,” Foggy says, putting his hands up defensively. “Something to think about for the future.”

“The distant, distant future, maybe…”

Foggy shrugs. “Sure. Either way, you’ve made some friends in D.C. this time around. Your next campaign will be easier, I promise.”

“Well, I have to make it through this one first,” Matt says, grimly, running a hand over his jaw in distress. God, even distressed, he’s still ridiculously handsome.

“Hey, if all else fails, you can always pray to Saint Thomas More.”

Matt gives him a baffled look. “What?”

“You know,” Foggy says, putting his hands in his pockets, casually, “the patron saint of statesmen and politicians.”

Matt’s smile of delight and comprehension is like the sun coming out from behind a cloud, which is a sentiment Foggy would have dismissed as overly and unnecessarily poetic and saccharine probably twenty minutes ago. His words to Karen yesterday— when you know, you know— come back to haunt him and it is so unfair and yet completely expected that this would happen to him, of all people. He’s known this guy for probably thirty minutes total and still, he knows Matt is special. That this is the beginning of something, even though it probably isn’t going to be what he wishes it could be. This is, bizarrely, a talent of his. He knows when someone is going to be important to him, usually right from the start. He knew it with Marci. He knew it with Karen. He knows it now too.

Son of a bitch, he thinks. This might hurt.

“Where did you learn that?” Matt asks, his voice gone kind of breathless around his smile.

“Not to brag, but I have access to many things in my line of work,” he replies, trying to stay casual, despite the revelations, “including several volumes of the Encyclopedia Britannica.”

“Fancy,” Matt says, with a laugh. “I appreciate the tip.”

“I couldn’t find the saint to pray to specifically for car trouble, but Saint Christopher or Saint Frances of Rome are the patron saints of drivers and Saint Catherine of Alexandria is the patron saint of mechanics, so any of them would do in a pinch. In case you were wondering.”

“Saint Christopher,” Matt replies, “is the patron saint of all travelers, actually.”

“Show-off!" Foggy exclaims. "You didn’t even have to look that up!”

“Every Catholic household has a medal or something for Saint Christopher kicking around,” he says, with a smile. “You didn’t stand a chance, I’m afraid to say.”

“What gave me away?”

“Oh, everything. I can spot a Protestant at fifty paces, especially the Christmas-and-Easter variety. It’s like the first thing they teach you in Catholic school.”

“Sure. I mean, what else are they going to do with all that time they’re not teaching you how to put condoms on bananas?”

Matt laughs another one of those big, unexpected laughs, almost staggering back with the force of it. “Yeah, abstinence only makes for very short lesson plans.”

“I’m guessing you all managed to figure out the basics anyway, just from the CDC data I’ve seen,” Foggy says, fully blushing all over with the pride of making Matt laugh and his own stupidity at bringing up Sex Ed in a moment like this. Sometimes he just truly cannot stop himself.

Before Matt can confirm or deny that he knows how to use a condom (seriously, what’s the matter with his brain?) Foggy rushes to add, “Also, thank you for giving me the credit of going to church on Easter. My mother will be pleased to know I’m fooling people into thinking I’m a nice young man, rather than being obvious with my true heathen nature.”

“You are a nice young man,” Matt says, softly, with the appearance of having sobered slightly. Maybe Foggy shouldn’t have called himself a heathen. Maybe he was being too obvious, the coded aspect of the code word too unfortunately crackable. Oh, well. “At least, I assume you’re young? I’m guessing, from the sound of your voice.”

“I am. I mean, I guess I am. Is 34 young?”

“For the deputy chief of staff for the White House?” Matt asks, eyebrows raised. “Yes! Are you serious?”

“Well, then.”

“You’re my age.”

“And?”

“You’re very successful.”

“I got lucky," Foggy says, with a shrug. "I was in the right place at the right time. That’s all.”

“Yes, because being in the right place at the right time is something to scoff at in our line of work,” Matt says, looking unimpressed. “And definitely completely negates the fact of you being good at your job.”

“I don’t know if I’d call that a fact, per se…”

“I’ll settle for it being my professional opinion, then, and people generally pay me good money for that kind of thing.”

“Well, I left my checkbook at home, unfortunately,” Foggy quips, and is rewarded with a sharp, almost shark-like smile from Matt. “All I can offer you is my gratitude. I mean, unless—?”

“Yes?” Matt asks, when he doesn’t immediately finish his thought.

“Well, you probably have to catch a flight or a train or something soon, right?”

He nods, brow furrowed. “Yeah, my train is out of Union Station at 1:30. Why?”

“Nothing, I—I’m sure you’ve got to—and I should, probably—”

“You should probably just say whatever it was you were initially going to ask me,” Matt says, head tipped, once again, with interest.

“Right,” Foggy laughs. This is so, so stupid. “I was going to say, if you had time, I could buy you a cup of coffee, to complete my apology for yesterday and to chip away at your consulting fee.”

Matt visibly hesitates, which, of course he does. Foggy made the world’s worst first impression and insulted him yesterday. He apologized for that, sure, but Matt’s still probably not pleased about the DNC’s decision and this wasted trip to D.C. to talk about it. One pleasant conversation doesn’t make them friends or anything.

“That's not necessary," he eventually replies, though not with a great deal of conviction, which is strange. With anyone else, Foggy would assume they wanted him to insist, but somehow he has trouble imagining that's the case here. "I'm sure you'd like to get back to your Sunday plans."

"My Sunday plans are this conversation and going into the office to debate the finer points of the death penalty. You have a pretty low opinion of yourself if you think your company ranks lower than that."

Matt seems to relax at that, oddly enough. “So," he says, with a self-deprecating smile, "this is probably the part where I should admit to an unhealthy amount of curiosity about where you’re at with the Cruz case.”

Of all the things he expected Matt to say, that certainly had not occurred to him, which means he blinks in surprise for what turns out to be a little too long.

“Sorry,” Matt says, mistaking Foggy’s pause for something it isn’t and wincing in apparent embarrassment, “I heard about it on the news. The Supreme Court’s decision, I mean, and I’ve been following the case for a while. When Marci mentioned it yesterday—I shouldn’t have said anything, but—”

“No, not at all,” Foggy says, hurriedly. “I’d honestly love to get your opinion.”

“Really?”

“Yes, I mean, you just admitted to following the case, and you’re a lawyer by training, I assume?”

“Yes.”

“Right, so that, and you know the political landscape we’re situated in at the moment as well as anyone, running this campaign, dealing with the DNC. Even if you want to give me your opinion as a Catholic, I’ll take it. It’s…we’re basically taking all bets, at the moment, if that’s not insulting to admit.”

Matt laughs lightly. “Not insulting. I think on average there was a majority of flattering sentiments in there.”

“Good,” Foggy says, sighing in relief. “That’s how it was intended.”

“I take it the President hasn’t made a decision on whether to stay the execution or not?”

“No, that’s why I’m heading into the office on a Sunday. We’re all trying to figure out our options.”

“Well, I have thoughts.”

Foggy laughs this time. “That’s what I like to hear.”

“I will, however, defer to you on the subject of where to get coffee in this neighborhood,” Matt says.

“Oh, right. Well, actually, if we cross up here—”

Foggy steps forward to gesture in the direction he means before he remembers that it won’t do much good. At the same moment, Matt steps forward too, towards Foggy, and holds out a hand in what looks like a conciliatory gesture. Foggy pauses, waiting to hear his objection or question, and not thinking too hard about how close they are now.

“Could I—that is, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, as we walk, could I hold onto your arm?” Matt asks, and he doesn’t sound embarrassed so much as tired. Foggy gets the sense that he doesn’t like asking for help or relying on people very much. “It makes navigating the sidewalks and everything easier. If not—”

“That’s fine,” Foggy interrupts, feeling only slightly bad that he’s this eager to comply. He’s mostly doing it to be nice, but there is a small part of him that’s excited because a cute guy will be touching him, which feels sort of bad. “I mean, I’m happy to—”

“Thanks,” Matt replies with just a small quirk of his mouth. If he’s noticed Foggy’s eagerness, he’s not calling it out, which is kind of him.

“Do you…know where my arm is?” Foggy asks, like a moron, making Matt laugh.

“It’s, well, it’s in this general vicinity, right?” Matt’s middle finger ends up jabbing into Foggy’s stomach, which is ideal, of course. Now Matt knows he doesn’t have abs of steel, a thing he was definitely going to pretend to have until directly contradicted. “Sorry.”

“That’s okay,” Foggy says, and just grabs Matt’s hand to get it over with. It’s not important or monumental in any way—they shook hands yesterday, so it’s not even the first time they’ve touched—but his pulse starts to race nonetheless. He places Matt’s hand on the crook of his elbow as quickly as he can without making it weird. Except that now he’s trying to remember the last time he held hands with someone and upon consideration, he thinks it’s been a while, which makes him sad to think about.

“That’s my elbow,” he says, stupidly, because anything else he could say at this moment would somehow be more embarrassing, which is impressive.

Matt laughs, just a little huff of amusement, but his eyes crinkle adorably again and that’s good enough. “I figured that out,” he says. “Thank you, though.”

“Right. Um, so as I was saying, if we cross the street here, I know a place only a few blocks away. Hopefully, it won’t be too busy on a Sunday morning for us to get a table.”

“Okay,” Matt says, nodding. “I’ll follow your lead.”

“Great,” Foggy says, but doesn’t move. He stands there awkwardly for a moment, not sure where this temporary immobility is coming from. “I, uh, I’ve never done this before.

“Gotten coffee?”

“No, uh, that I’ve done, actually, if you can believe it," Foggy says, with a laugh. "I’ve never led someone before? I just don’t want to make you trip or anything.”

“It’s just an extra precaution,” Matt explains, calmly. This is probably something he explains a lot, Foggy realizes with some amount of shame. “I can get around fine on my own, but especially someplace new, this helps.”

“Should I point out obstacles or something? Does that help at all?”

“You’re taking this very seriously,” Matt says with a smile that might be at his expense. In which case, Foggy thinks, it is fully worth it. It’s a good smile.

“Yeah, sorry, I just—”

“You can point things out, that’s fine, but I trust you won’t lead me into any open manholes or anything like that.”

“That’s a lot of trust, man,” Foggy says, and Matt laughs. “I mean, you’re talking to someone who loves some Looney Tunes shenanigans.”

“Well, then I guess if someone paints a wall to look like a train tunnel, we’re both in a lot of trouble.”

“I’ll try to be strong,” Foggy says, “and vigilant.”

“That’s all I ask.”

Foggy realizes this is probably the moment they need to actually start walking, otherwise they’re just two guys who have linked arms outside of a church. He moves hesitantly in the direction of the crosswalk, tugging Matt gently along with him, and it doesn’t feel anywhere near as awkward as he was expecting. It just feels nice.

“You see?” Matt asks, leaning against his arm. “It’s just like walking with a person!”

Foggy digs his elbow into Matt’s side in retaliation, which just makes him ping-pong away from him before bouncing back, already laughing. “Have all the fun you want,” Foggy says. “Just remember, your life is in my hands.”

“And how very capable they are,” Matt says, mildly, still grinning.

Foggy feels himself blush and he’s very thankful at this moment that Matt probably can’t tell. It’s the only advantage he has in this situation. Naturally, of course, he decides to cancel out that advantage immediately by saying something stupid.

“By the way, this is what I normally smell like,” he says, as they wait for the walk signal.

Matt raises his eyebrows at him. “Oh?” he says, while giving nothing away, like a total bastard.

“There’s a lot of good reasons not to take a meeting straight off of a fifteen hour flight, it turns out,” Foggy says, trying not to die of embarrassment. Maybe Matt hadn’t noticed. He thought he’d just been too polite to say anything. “I want it on the record that I, you know, shower regularly and wear deodorant and everything.”

“Noted,” Matt says with another cryptic smile. He might even inhale a little bit deeper, though Foggy might be imagining that.

“Fine, I might even smell a little better than normal. But that’s all you’ll get out of me!”

So what if he had put on cologne that he usually forgets to wear? It was a drop if it was anything. And he only did it because of what a clusterfuck yesterday had been. He’d felt he had something to prove to Matt after that conversation went so poorly.

Matt, of course, seems to be enjoying himself immensely. “I’m impressed,” he says, as they cross the street. “If you’re willing to go to these lengths for the likes of me, I can only imagine what you’d do for someone important.”

He doesn’t mean it like that, Foggy reasons. It wasn’t intended to make him sound like, well, a bit of a whore, but it lands like that, for whatever reason. Like he’d been strategically deployed by his superiors to smooth things over, to butter Matt up to avoid burning a bridge they might want to cross someday. But, as much as he’d love to slather him in butter right now, that is not the case and, unfortunately, it’s also not a way that Foggy’s allowed to think about this person.

“You’re important,” he says, after a moment’s pause. “We’re fucking democrats, Matt. Our whole thing is that we think everyone is important, right? And, even if you somehow weren’t, I’d still be here. Even if no one asked me to be.”

“I didn’t mean to imply—”

“Of course not,” Foggy says, more breezily than he feels. “But my point still stands. I know all this stuff with the DNC is discouraging, but don’t let it sour you on all this. You could very well be the future of the party.”

Matt laughs, nervously. “I don’t know about that.”

Foggy shrugs, which he trusts Matt can feel. “I’ve been told I have good instincts for this kind of thing.”

“Now that I can believe,” Matt says.

When Foggy turns to look at him, he finds Matt already regarding him with interest. He thinks again of his conviction from earlier that this is no irrelevant run-of-the-mill meeting—one of dozens he'll take this week, and hundreds he'll take this year—but rather the beginning of something important. He feels certain that this won't be the last he sees of Matt Murdock and wonders if the same thing is going through Matt's mind too as they walk together. If he's willing to be honest with himself, he can admit that's not just something he suspects will be true; it's something he hopes will be true too.

🏳️‍🌈 💖

#i don't enjoy formatting fic for tumblr but it's part of the posting process for me #in case some people prefer to read here #anyway please enjoy and happy pride to whatever these two got going on #daredevil #foggy nelson #matt murdock #karen page #matt x foggy #mattfoggy #ship names remain my mortal enemy when it comes to tagging #whatever yall call it...it's them....the BOYS #the west wing au #this is my first non-prompt fill fic in literally so long i've forgotten how i format this stuff normally #homelywenchsociety #that’s my writing tag! don’t worry about it!#series: a more perfect union

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zushigirl · 1 year

Text

Tagged by the phenomenal @ninzied to find break, dark, fall, and regret…Here’s the first one and - boy - has this tag game been fun! May turn one of these wips into a full fledged fic. Let me know what you think!

Break (Bookstore AU)

The quiet.

The shift in energy hits Karen the moment she enters the bookstore. All the chatter of Hell’s Kitchen – the hum of voices, the roar if traffic, the pings and digs of cell phones – seem to fade away. Almost as if she’s been transported to another world.

Like Alice stepping through the looking glass.

She makes her way down the stairs, eyes tracing the rows of wooden shelves filled with tattered paperbacks. Foggy called Castle’s Used Books dreary, but she loves it instantly. Rows upon rows of faded paperbacks. The smell of paper. The focused energy. The place reminds her of the old bookstore across from the Student Union at Georgetown.

Making it to the bottom step, Karen grins. The sign by the unmanned checkout desk is the real reason Foggy poopoos this place.

Silence your cell phone or get the hell out.

The infamous sign.

Foggy told her about it.

“I was minding my own business. Just waiting for Marci to find some Daniel Steel novel. I pull out my phone to check my email for like one second. One second. The minute my phone pings, the owner was on me. He appeared out of nowhere, towering over me. Scowling. Eyes glinting like some psycho murder. Told me to try reading something other than Instagram reel on my phone.”

Karen chuckles to herself. Poor Foggy. He doesn’t know how to disconnect.

Glancing up, she studies the chalkboard signs at the beginning of each aisle. Poetry. That’s the section she’s been tasked to find. Specifically, The Hollow Men by T. S. Elliot. Ellison’s birthday gift from the staff. The newspaper editorial is a huge fan of the poet’s work, and this is the one piece not stuffed in the massive bookshelf behind his desk.

This is the way the world ends. Not with a bang, but with a whimper.

Karen remembers reading the poem in college. It’s a little dark for her tastes, but if the man who plays gatekeeper to her name being published in the next edition loves it…

It takes fifteen minutes of wandering through the store, but Karen finally finds the poetry section by the back wall. Of course, T.S. Eliot is located all the way at the very top of corner of it all. She glanced warily at the step stool sitting at the very end of the aisle. It’s not quite tall enough for her to reach her target and the heels she’s wearing won’t make things any easier.

Sighing, Karen grabs the stool and leans up against the bookshelf. She climbs on top, standing on her tip toes, craning her neck to scan the titles.

Hollow Men, Hollow Men, come on Hollow M –

“Ma’am?” A gravelly voice – the first she’s heard since entering the store - echoes behind her.

“Shit!”

In an instant, Karen’s wobbling on the stool. Then she’s teetering on the edge. Then –

Someone’s holding her steady. A firm hand on her forearm.

“Hey. Hey. Be careful now.”

Karen looks down…to find a pair of coffee-colored eyes staring up at her. Suddenly she knows who this is…and Foggy was wrong.

Frank Castle doesn’t have eyes like a psycho murder. His eyes are…Karen can’t put her finger on it, but there’s a story in those eyes. A story so compelling she can’t break her gaze.

#kastle #frank x karen #kastle ff #kastlenetwork #karen page #kastle fic rec #kastleff #kastle au #kastle fam is the best fam

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gayhomebody · 4 months

Text

Books I've read in 2024

'Bleak House' by Charles Dickens

'Bandits' by Eric Hobsbawm

'Soledad Brother: The Prison Letters of George Jackson' by George Jackson

'The Violence of Britishness: Racism, Borders and the Conditions of Citizenship' by Nadya Ali

'Black Power' by Kwame Ture and Charles V. Hamilton

History Today February 2024 Vol. 74 Issue 2

'The Autobiography of an Unknown Indian' by Nirad C. Chaudhuri

'Booth' by Karen Joy Fowler

'Making Sense of Russia's Invasion of Ukraine' by Paul Le Blanc

History Today March 2024 Vol. 74 Issue 3

'Walter Benjamin's Archive'

Granta 15, Spring 1985, 'The Fall of Saigon' by James Fenton

'Kitchen Confidential: Insider's Edition' by Anthony Bourdain

'End British Support for Zionism, Isolate the Israeli State' by FRFI

'East into Upper East: Plain Tales from New York and New Delhi' by Ruth Prawer Jhabvala

'From the Four Corners' by Jan Morris

'Common Sense and The American Crisis I' by Thomas Paine

#books #booklr #book list #2024 reads #reading

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halfpastdead · 2 years

Photo

In The Flesh by Dominic Mitchell (2013), script to screen -> Series 1, Episode 2 (pt. 4 / ?)

Luke Newberry - Kieren Walker David Walmsley - Rick Macy Emily Bevan - Amy Dyer Stephen Thompson - Philip Wilson Steve Evets - Bill Macy Karen Henthorn - Janet Macy

INT. THE LEGION - CORRIDOR NEXT TO TOILETS

PHILIP guides KIEREN and AMY towards the chair designated for Rick and hastily pulls over another seat.

AMY (sarcastic)

Wow, it’s the VIP lounge.

PHILIP (as he places the second chair)

Enjoy your night.

Philip gives Amy a sly once over, is about to leave when...

Rick exits the mens’s toilets wiping his mouth. He sees Kieren. Freezes. Turns to ice. He does. If you were to go up to him now and push him he’d topple over and smash into a million little pieces. Kieren goes up to the edge of the PDS sufferer area. Rick snaps back into reality. Notices out of the corner of his eye Philip looking at him.

RICK

Alright, mate?

Rick sticks out his hand. It trembles ever so slightly. Kieren looks at Rick. At his outstretched hand. He’s stunned by Rick’s response. He was expecting... what? Fireworks? A passionate embrace? Maybe not, not here, but certainly he wasn't expecting an ‘alright mate’ and a bloody handshake. He takes Ricks hand none the less.

KIEREN

It’s good to see you, Rick.

RICK

Yeah. Good to see you too, Ren.

Rick’s eyes dart over to Philip. He takes his hand back.*

RICK (CONT’D) (beat)

I’m sitting out there.

KIEREN

Right. Well I can’t go out there.

RICK

Why not?

Kieren looks at Rick. Really? You really don’t know why?

KIEREN

Rules.

RICK

Who says?

KIEREN

Philip.

Rick turns to Philip.

RICK

Lippy, what yer doin’ puttin’ Ren in ‘ere? It’s Ren, yer tart!

PHILIP

He’s, uh, he’s -

RICK

He’s a what?

PHILIP backs off. Rick lifts rope for Kieren. Kieren looks at Amy.

KIEREN

And...my friend?

RICK

Sure. If she must.

Kieren and Amy exit out the PDS sufferers’ area.

INT. THE LEGION - BAR AREA - NIGHT 4

KIEREN and AMY sit at RICK’S table. RICK drinks and chats with Kieren. GARY eyeballs Amy.

From the bar, BILL and JANET stare at Kieren, wary. Is the past repeating itself?**

RICK

The Trolley of Certain Death.

KIEREN

I forgot about that.

RICK

You made it. I rode it.

KIEREN

From the Den to the bottom of the crag.

RICK

Then, then, we made Lippy ride it. And he flew right off the path and into that bramble patch. YOU REMEMBER THAT, LIPPY?

*Rick did not end up taking his hand back while talking to grand ole Lippy. And he grabbed Kieren’s arm on the way out. Everyone say thank you David Walmsley!

**I cheated a tiny bit with the order of the Bill and Janet shot, but I think this one captured that sentiment better than what got edited in the exact slot. Bonus Janet - ffs he’s back from the dead for seduction 2

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circusgoth-dotcom · 9 months

Text

Get Away

Ship: Anton Chigurh x Salem Nickle Newman (Secretary!AU)

Word Count: 1311

Summary: This AU isn't going to be elaborated on, it's just a oneshot I wanted to mess around with. Salem is a secretary for the people who often hire Anton and Anton takes a liking to him. Ending may be a little rushed. CWs for implied criminal activity, Karen behaviour (from another character), implied murder, cigarette mentions (no actual smoking described). Edit: Counting this as Prompt 19 on this SelfShipSeptember post.

Tag List: @futurewife @canongf

Salem Newman was a secretary, stationed in a large corporate building dealing with things he didn’t much care about. However, he was aware that it was only a front for much darker goings-on, and he still couldn’t bring himself to question things. If he was getting paid and being left alone, he was content to turn a blind eye. After all, it beat being stuck on a farm in the middle of bumfuck nowhere.

There was one positive to his job: a hitman by the name of Anton Chigurh, hired by one of the higher-ups in the building. Whenever he came in, Salem happened to be at the front desk of his boss’ floor. Of course, he’d never admit he enjoyed seeing Chigurh, and that was besides the fact Chigurh probably didn’t even acknowledge him outside of those brief check-ins at the desk.

On a pale Monday morning, Salem found himself gritting through a conversation with one of his coworkers over a cup of coffee. “Henrietta, if you’re questioning our employers, why don’t you just quit? Everyone’s gotta make a living, and if your current living doesn’t feel right, then maybe it’s a sign from the universe that you’ve gotta make a change.”

Henrietta recoiled slightly in offence. “That isn’t an option for me, Newman… you can’t tell me you’re happy with yourself, working this job…?”

Salem took a deep drink of his coffee. “Darlin’, I know things that’ll make you wish you quit months ago,” he spoke darkly. “If I were you, I’d feel lucky to even have a job, especially when we’re getting paid what we are.”

“What are you talking about--?”

At that moment, the elevator doors opened and familiar, dark brown, alligator-skin boots stepped onto the cream and grey carpet.

“Morning, Mr. Chigurh,” Salem spoke loudly, rising from his chair and resting his elbows on the tall counter in front of his desk, mug cupped loosely between his dainty hands. Anton approached the desk with a respectful nod.

“Newman.” His dark eyes swept toward Henrietta, who shrunk under his gaze. “And who’s this?”

She let out an odd sort of squeaking noise, tried to recover, then turned the corner and sped out of sight. Once Salem was sure she was far enough away, he spoke.

“A ninny of a coworker, that’s who. Nobody you need to worry about.” He took another sip of coffee and settled back down into his chair, “You go right on ahead, now, Mr. Archer’s all set up to see you.”

“Thank you.” The hitman gave the secretary an appreciative smile and strode forward, entering the office at the end of the hall. Salem watched him go, then sighed when the door closed behind him, returning his attention back to his coffee and the computer in front of him.

It was months before Salem saw him again, and on a very busy day at the office no less. Phone cradled between his ear and his shoulder, one hand busy with the computer and another jotting shorthand on a notepad, people rushing this way and that. Salem didn't notice his favourite patron for a good few minutes, especially not with the disgruntled man already in front of him, who now snapped his fingers in its face.

"Is Archer here or not, you lousy…?"

Salem slapped his hand over the receiver of the phone, hissing, "Would you shut the fuck up for two seconds, I told you this was an important call when you came in!"

The man's face flushed angrily as Salem returned his attention to his call.

"Don’t you tell me to shut up, you're the employee here, you're supposed to cater to me first! You're probably not even on a business call!"

"I believe Mr. Newman told you to shut your trap," Anton rumbled from behind, quickly catching the businessman's attention.

"Excuse me??"

Anton's eyes subtly flicked in annoyance as he spoke again with even more precise diction: "My friend asked you to shut your trap, sir, don't make me repeat myself again."

"And who the Hell are you??"

"Me?" Anton cracked a grin. "Oh, I'm nobody. Nobody at all. But the same can't be said for the man behind the counter, so I'd respect him if I were you."

With that, the hitman situated himself beside the opposite wall, comfortably leaning against it with his ankles crossed and a serene but guarded expression on his face, despite the fact there were empty chairs just to his left. Prickly silence filled the air between the two men, only punctuated by the clacking of chunky keyboard keys and Salem's short answers to whomever he was speaking to on the phone.

The call eventually ran on so long that the initial man stormed off, growling about telling whoever was funding Salem's paycheck about the incident. Anton remained unphased, content to watch Salem work for the time being. When they finally got off the phone, they dropped it into its cradle and rested their head on the desk, hands tangling in the back of their hair.

Anton paused just a moment longer before approaching the desk and clearing his throat. Salem's head immediately popped up, eyes screwed shut and face flushed. "What, what is it, what do you want, can I not have two seconds today to breathe..?!" He snapped, voice breaking before opening his eyes and startling. "Oh, Christ, I-I'm sorry, I didn’t know it was you, Mr. Chigurh…"

Anton held up his hand briefly. "No need for apologies." He removed his wallet and placed down a twenty-dollar bill. "Get yourself something from the convenience store on the corner."

Salem rubbed his eyes under his glasses before staring at the money, furrowing his brow. "Mr. Chigurh, you don’t need to be giving me money, I've got enough for the vending machine in the breakroom…"

Anton nudged the bill closer in an insistent manner. "Go down to the convenience store. I promise you won't regret it."

Salem scratched the back of his head. "Well…"

"Don’t hesitate, just take it."

"Alright, I will!" Salem stood and picked up the money. "I'll go right now, since you're being so pushy…" It smiled shyly. "I think someone's still in with Mr. Archer, but you know the door so I trust you to keep an eye on it."

"Yes, sir."

"Alrighty then. Thank you, Mr. Chigurh."

Another two months passed after that before Salem saw Anton again, this time later in the afternoon than usual. Salem stood beside his desk, thumbing the top of a cigarette pack and glancing up and down the hall, looking for the hitman and taking a small, relieved breath when the elevator doors opened with a ding.

“Oh good, I almost thought you weren’t coming. Bit late for you, ain’t it? My break started five minutes ago but I didn’t want to keep you waiting--”

“Take your break, Newman. Mr. Archer and I already talked over the phone.”

The two briefly nodded at each other before Salem went off, not questioning the moment and simply looking forward to having his lunch. When he returned to his desk, he was surprised to find Anton waiting for him.

“So, how’d it go?” Salem asked casually. Anton gave him a particular look.

“You tell me.”

An odd feeling enveloped Salem: While its stomach grew cold and goose pimples sprung up on its back, its heartbeat quickened in abnormal excitement. “Oh.” It was only now that Salem noticed the long gun with the hefty silencer Anton carried.

“I want you to come with me. Your path doesn’t end behind this desk.”

Salem swallowed. “What if I’m perfectly happy where I am, Mr. Chigruh?”

“You aren’t. I see it in the shadows under your eyes.”

They laughed in a shaky manner, blood colouring their cheeks. “I’m not.” They admitted. “I’m not.”

Anton silently offered his hand. Salem took it.

#self shipping #self shipping community #self insert #self insert x canon #self x canon #self insert oc #oc x canon #gay self ship #trans self ship #circus scripts #🐮Sugar Bully🐮#🥤🌵.s/i #safeshipseptember

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daredevilhub · 2 years

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“Why do all the wrong people die -- while the others seem to go on... forever?”

[ID: Three comic edits of Karen Page on blue backgrounds.

1: Karen is standing and looking over her shoulder with a purse on her arm. The background is textured. A white rectangle is behind her with “Karen Page” written on either side of her.

2: Karen is sitting with her hands folded in front of her. Beside her are a stack of books and a vase with a rose. There are pink hearts in the background.

3: Karen is looking to the side and holding a phone. Next to her is a white rectangle with the words, “You’re not jealous of Daredevil, are you, Mister Murdock?” The upper left corner is cut to reveal scattered papers. End ID.]

#karen page #comics #karenpageedit #daredeviledit #marveledit #comicedit #usercroft #tuserkyle #userjohnny #usersawah #tuserrex #userlindir #usercy #cbnetwork #ours #by parker

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doubtingthomasin · 2 years

Text

kinktober: hellcheer edition

prompt 22: pregnancy fetish word count: 3.3k

(since i'm about 95% sure i have tokophobia (pregnancy phobia) i wasn’t gonna do this one at all.

but the angst called. and i answered.)

MINORS DNI

@viharker

-------

It starts with a skirt, of course. Just like always.

Laura calls Chrissy to the sewing room one evening, in a rage.

"Th-That doesn't make any sense," Chrissy stutters, already shaking. "I've been on a steady diet of c-celery and cranberry juice for a week."

"Well, it's not working, missy!" She throws the skirt down on the sewing table, rounding the corner of it to get in her daughter's face. "Keep this up and I'm sending you to fat camp again this fall instead of college."

"Mom, please, no, I'm trying–" She cries out as her mother's rough hand closes around her arm, dragging her out of the room and pushing her into the hallway.

"Figure it out!" She slams the door, leaving Chrissy on the verge of tears.

She rushes directly to the bathroom from there and weighs herself. Sure enough, she's gained two pounds. Perplexed, she cries herself to sleep that night.

Eddie hears about it the next day when she knocks on his door, already crying before it opens. "I've gained weight again."

He sighs while she clings to him, stroking her hair as they settle onto the couch. "And what have I told you every time before, baby?"

"I know, I know," she says anxiously. "'It doesn't matter. You need some to survive.' I get that…but it doesn't make sense this time."

He shudders at what that means she's most likely been doing, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Chrissy…you told me that the doctor said you're destroying your body. Remember what we read about Karen Carpenter–"

But she's already shaking her head, so he stops. "I'm late again."

He stares at the floor, eyes growing wider as he swallows hard, rubbing a hand over his mouth. "That…that's two months in a row." She nods before he looks up at her, their eyes meeting as they gauge each other's reaction. "H-...How sure are you?"

"I haven't taken a test," she admits. "I don't even know how to get one without some…busybody noticing that it's me buying one, and I…if my mother finds out…"

The tears well up again and he wraps his arms around her, resting a cheek against her head. "I think I have a solution for that."

Two hours and one phone call later, they're standing in the alley around the corner from Melvald's, waiting. Finally, Joyce comes into view with an unmarked paper bag. "Now, there are two in here, just in case one's defective or…you just wanna make sure."

Chrissy nods, reluctantly taking the bag from her. "Thank you so much, Joyce, I owe you one."

"We owe you one," Eddie corrects.

"You don't owe me a thing," she says a bit forcefully before giving them a sympathetic smile, embracing them both. "I had Jonathan when I was twenty. Everything's gonna be okay no matter what, alright?"

They nod against her shoulders, stomach turning. "You let me know how it turns out and if you need anything else," she adds as she lets them go, rubbing their arms. "Promise me."

"We will," they both say almost in unison.

But nothing feels okay when both tests come back positive and Chrissy runs to the bathroom in tears, locking herself inside for an hour. Nothing feels okay when she runs to escape her mother the night she tells her, making it all the way to the other end of Loch Nora–to Steve’s house.

Joyce and Jim are staying there until they can find a place, and it’s Joyce who answers the door. “Oh, sweetie,” she coos, gathering Chrissy in her arms as she breaks down.

“What’s going on?” She looks over Joyce’s shoulder to find Steve staring at her, terrified, and she cries even harder.

Nothing feels okay when she mutters, “It isn’t yours,” curled up in the passenger seat as he drives toward Forest Hills, trying to stem the bile rising in his throat.

Nothing feels okay when she peeks through Eddie’s bedroom door to find him crying on Steve’s shoulder that same night. They talk, but she knows she won’t be able to bear what they say, so she stays in the living room.

And there’s definitely nothing okay about the moment Joyce, the Cunningham’s, and both Munson men start a screaming match, Jim trying to calm them all down as Chrissy runs away again. She curls up in the back of Eddie’s van, sobbing harder than her lungs can handle.

She awakens to the sound of Jim loading up her suitcases, almost missing her small frame entirely. He helps her out of the back and into the passenger seat as Eddie gets behind the wheel.

But when Eddie turns his back to her as they try to fall asleep later that night, she knows the truth with heartbreaking clarity.

Nothing is okay, and it’s all her fault.

That thought repeats intrusively for the next week, wearing her down like water on stone. She and Eddie say good morning and every other basic nicety under the sun, and he offers her juice and sets toast down in front of her.

He assures her that she’ll always have a roof over her head as long as there’s breath in his body, he’ll make sure of it. They work on separate projects, her reading a book (trying to, despite her anxiety) and him practicing guitar or scribbling down D&D ideas, sitting on opposite sides of his room.

He still makes jokes and does things on purpose to try and make her smile or laugh, which isn’t as easy as it was the week before. He gets the prenatal vitamins himself because he doesn’t want her to have to deal with all the judgemental stares and whispers. He’s already used to that anyway.

He’s taken to changing his clothes in the bathroom and knocking every time he enters his own bedroom if she’s in it. He gently pressures her to eat because now she has to. And it takes him a few days, but he finally broaches a sensitive aspect of the situation.

“You know…there are options, Chrissy…if you don’t want to keep it.”

He swallows the lump in his throat as he looks up at her over their lunch, and he thinks the anxious look on her face is just from the topic itself. But she’s heartbroken all over again, thinking he’s already decided that he doesn’t want it, yet how can she be upset over that? Of course he doesn’t want to be a dad at twenty, and it’s her fault that he will be. So she rounds her shoulders, on the verge of tears she doesn't deserve to weep.

“I don’t think I could live with myself…with either one.”

He nods in understanding and goes back to eating, and that’s the end of the conversation. After lunch, she excuses herself from the table, walks out to the porch, and cries as quietly as possible.

Later that night, lying in bed, she builds up the courage to look over her shoulder. He’s turned away from her again, just like every other night since the sky fell in on their world. The tears fall, soundless, as she drifts to sleep.

Another week passes, somewhat identical to the first, always with him acting like himself during the day. Except he doesn’t touch her anymore, not even for a hug or a peck on the cheek, and she knows it’s purposeful because she tries and he jumps back, claiming that she startled him. And, of course, he continues to leave distance between them in the bed at night, a few feet that might as well be a chasm threatening to swallow her whole.

She starts wishing that was possible.

She’s fairly sure Wayne hasn’t said a word to his nephew about the whole ordeal since the night her parents threw her out. (That’s what she is now, she thinks: an ordeal.) However, the day before everything comes to a head, he does say something to her as he’s leaving for work.

“I’m so sorry for this whole mess…and the fact that it was my nephew who got you into it. I thought I raised him better than that.”

But as he’s walking away, she just can’t let it stand.

“Wayne?” He turns toward her small voice, her expression resolute as she speaks calmly. “This is on me. He didn’t make me do anything I didn’t want to do.” Her eyes are already burning for the fourth time that day. “I need you to know that.”

He hesitates, then nods– “Of course, kiddo.” –and leaves.

When the tears don’t come, she figures she’s finally all cried out.

The next morning, that proves not to be the case rather quickly. She lays in bed alone for a few minutes, forming a plan for the day in her head. She gets dressed before leaving the bedroom, walking slowly into the kitchen to find him washing dishes, a towel slung over his shoulder.

“I’m gonna go out,” she says, glancing at what must be her glass of juice on the counter. “Gonna go visit Steve.”

He turns around, slightly confused because she doesn’t have a car since her parents took it back. “Okay. You might have to put gas in the van.”

“Okay.” After he’s turned back to the sink and her hand's on the doorknob, she hears it.

A sigh of relief.

It’s unmistakable because she knows what he sounds like when he’s relieved, when he finally presses into her after building himself up to the breaking point, when he finally gets to climax. It’s almost the exact same sound, just quieter. But not quiet enough.

Her eyes are instantly filled as she turns to his back, and there’s no other reason she can think of for that sound than that he’s relieved she’s leaving. There’s not stopping the tears, no steadying her voice because it’s impossible with how much agonizing pain is in her body now, but she has to know.

“S-So are we over now?” Her voice is high and shaky and she hates it, hates it.

He faces her, alarmed. “What?”

It all comes crashing out of her like an avalanche. “I…I know this is all my fault because I must’ve messed up my pills somehow, and I’ve ruined your life…but you said I could stay. I didn’t think that you’d…that you’d stop loving me. I mean…you don’t touch me at all, and I know I’ve gained weight, but I can’t help it, and you said that was okay anyway before this shitstorm even started! But n-now it’s like you don’t want me at all or I disgust you, and you’re just pretending to make me feel better but I don’t deserve that! I don’t deserve to feel better because I messed up!”

“Chrissy–”

But it's no use as she sputters on through inhales and exhales. “So, I’ll g-go if you want me gone, you don’t have to pretend, Eddie, just tell me because I can’t live like this. I can’t live with you hating me, I’ll raise the baby on my own if that’ll help, I just don’t want you to hate me–”

“Chrissy, stop!” She flinches at his yell, hiccuping as she looks up to see that he’s crying, too. His voice breaks as he forces out the words. “I’m sorry, I just…I just needed you to stop. Sweetheart, you’ve got it all backward.”

She's sniffling pretty hard, so she's not sure she heard him correctly. “What?”

Eddie throws the towel on the counter before rushing to her, taking her in his arms. “I’m so sorry, baby. You could never ruin my life, but I’ve ruined yours." Her arms wrap around him, both of them try to stem the tears. "I was careless with you when you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. And no, of course I don’t want you to leave, I never want you to go. I love you, I love you so much. And now I’ve fucked it all up.”

Her lips tremble, her forehead creasing as she looks up at him. “But I don’t understand. You said there were options.”

“Because it’s up to you." He brushes her hair off her face, cradling it in his hands. "Even if it breaks my heart, I don’t get to decide for you, but I’ll support you.”

“Break your heart? Y-...You want the baby?”

“Absolutely!” Her heart soars as he continues. “Chrissy, the moment you told me you might be pregnant was one of the most…terrifying in my life. But the more I thought about it and the more I talked to Steve, the more I realized how great it could be. I mean, sure, I’m still terrified, but I love you. But you’ve been so miserable ever since we found out. I didn’t know how to tell you how happy I am without sounding like a total ass.”

She shakes her head a little, the words on her tongue turning to sobs as he pulls her in again, hugging her tightly.

"After everything we all went through earlier this year…this feels like it could be a good thing. Even if it's the hardest thing we've ever done."

He still hears her words, though they're muffled by his chest. “Then why won’t you touch me?”

His heart sinks, nerves hitting full force as he pulls back to scratch his neck. “Uh…”

“Eddie, please, just tell me. It’s been weeks. That’s why I was gonna go see Steve.” She pauses, her stomach turning. “Is it my weight?”

“No, no, no, baby.”

“Then what?”

Eddie leaves her to sit on the couch, almost every nervous tic of his that she knows of on full display. “I don’t know how to say it. I mean…we joke about me being a pervert, but…” He tries to make eye contact, but it's sporadic at best. “I noticed…when your…tits got a little bigger. Then your ass, and I just…I just thought, you know…you were getting better. Then we found out the truth and…the night of that big fight, when we were laying in bed…”

It's a loaded silence that hangs between them, oddly charged by whatever he hasn't yet voiced. “What?”

“Well, I definitely didn’t want to go to sleep, but I felt kind of…ashamed, I guess? I still do." He tries to swallow the lump in his throat, but it won't budge this time. "I've felt that way every day.”

A lightbulb of sorts comes on in her head, but it's still rather dim as she asks for clarity. “Eddie…are you saying that you like how I look pregnant?”

“Oh, you’d need a word much stronger than ‘like.’” He looks up from the floor to see her pacing slightly, and he sighs anxiously. “See, I knew it would freak you out. It freaks me out.”

“Why?”

“Because, you’re…kind of in a delicate situation, and still all I wanna do is…”

“Mess me up?”

He nods, eyes closed, completely missing the brief lust-filled expression on her face. “I feel like a fucking creep.”

“And that’s why you turned away. That’s why you stopped touching me altogether.”

“Yeah, 'cause it seems like almost every time I do, it causes a, uh…situation." He briefly angles his hands at his crotch, pointing to the partial hard-on she hadn't even noticed. "And I know I’m a freak, but where does it fucking stop, y’know?" He forces himself to meet her eye then. "I’m sorry, I’m so sorry I made you feel unloved just because I’m going through something really fucking weird.”

“It’s not weird." She says it right away, moving to sit next to him. "And you’re not a creep.”

He's immensely relieved that she isn't running away screaming, but her words don't really make him feel all that much better about what he's experiencing, so he shrugs. “I don’t know what to do about it, though.”

“I guess there’s only one thing you can do.” Her soft voice makes him look up from his lap, and he knows he's done for by the way she's biting her lip, the needy look in her eye.

"That's…only if you want to," he says quietly, almost shaking. It's on the last word that she's already straddling his lap to kiss the life out of him. They do their best to devour each other, her hands sliding up his stomach until he pulls his shirt over his head.

His hands tangle in her hair even as she tries to pull away, grabbing his hand once she succeeds and rushing them both to the bedroom. Slamming the door, she pushes him down onto the bed, groaning and rubbing herself against his leg as their lips clash feverishly.

His fingers nimbly undo her jeans, and he shoves his hand down to stroke her, the sudden contact making her break away with a squeal. They smile at each other, seeing how broken they already are, but her face goes lax as his fingers work her clit.

One swift motion and she's down on the bed, his other hand moving up her shirt and under her bra to squeeze her breast, choking out a curse. He makes her come with her jeans still on, bucking against his hand and the constricting fabric for more friction. Her bottoms and panties are down to her ankles by the time she recovers enough to kick them off, and Eddie’s on his knees kissing up and down her thighs.

She grabs his hair with necessary roughness, directing his mouth to her soaked cunt as he pants into her, licking and sucking while she whines. One hand tightens around her thigh while the other rubs her taut stomach as he tongue-fucks her toward another climax. “Oh, God!”

He suddenly stops, dragging her up the bed and her head clears enough to start working in his belt. Her hands are shaking so he helps, stripping his jeans and boxers down to below his knees. “Christ,” he exclaims as she pumps him in her hand. “I’m not gonna last long as it is.”

“Need to feel you,” she moans, her legs spreading wider. “Please, I feel so empty.”

“I’m so sorry–” His lips crash into hers, cutting off his own apology as he finally gives her what she wants, sinking all the way down her in one quick stroke. Her head falls back with a shout and he’s not much quieter, rubbing a thumb into her nipple as he rolls his hips. “Fuuuuck.” He draws out the word, overwhelmed by how goddamn good she feels, the added fullness of her skin and the slick heat of her pussy greedily pulling him back in on every stroke.

He fucks her slowly despite the urge to nail her to the sheets, knowing he has to make it amazing for her because he’s already about to burst. She cries his name as he slides in and out, never completely out, grinding his hips side to side just to hear her sob a little louder. Her breasts bounce on even the shortest thrusts, and he gives into the desire to take one in his mouth.

Her keening voice reaches into him and rips him apart, his movements shallower and frantic as he pumps into her, his fingers digging into her hip bone. She follows closely behind as he presses against her, riding them both through the high with shuddering groans.

Even when he’s done, he can’t help licking at her nipple, swirling his tongue and sucking before doing the same to her neck. She strokes his hair as their breathing returns to normal and their eyes dry, giggling when she realizes he still has one hand glued to her breast.

He groans in response but it trails into a laugh. “I’m sorry, I’m such a fucking weirdo.”

She places a kiss on his forehead, nuzzling her cheek against his soft hair. “Even if that's true, you’re my weirdo.”

And as they fall asleep wrapped up in each other, everything finally feels okay.

#the angst won out on this one a bit oops #but i had to because i can't get caught up in the details #i started this one like a week ago tbh #i hated skimming so much but if i didn't we would've had another 6k prompt fill on our hands lmao #eddissy #hellcheer #hellcheer kinktober #it's honestly very light on steddissy so i won't tag #eddie x chrissy #chrissy x eddie #evan's writing

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