"She thought you were dead," came the response. "You were hit by a piece of concrete and the phone was almost crushed. You almost crushed me when you blacked out."

Fisk shifted, trying to assess the damage, but all he could focus on was the overwhelming pain in his shoulder, the way the entire limb hung wrong at his side. "Let me speak to her."

Murdock thrust the phone at him, but he found himself unable to reach for it. After a moment of strained silence, Murdock held it to his ear. Vanessa was saying his name. "I'm here," he said, pained.

"Wilson," she murmured, her voice shaking.

"I- Vanessa, everything is okay.

"You're hurt."

Fisk fell fell silent, at a loss for words. He had to reassure her- even though he was feeling less sure, himself, that he would ever see her again. The building would become their tomb; the air was already beginning to bear down on them, heavy and tangible, as the dust finally settled. All he could hear around him was the slow patter of dirt, the occasional rumble of more debris shifting; there couldn't be anybody coming for them, no matter what Murdock said.

"I will be fine, Vanessa," he said, at length, but even to his ears he sounded resigned. "I- I hope that you will- forgive me. If I ever gave you reason to- worry." He could hear her, labored breathing over the line, but he couldn't dwell on it. He would never be able to finish, if he thought of her, sitting there, alone, holding back her tears. "I love you, my dear. I will be home soon."

"Wilson." He had to close his eyes at the tremor of her voice. "I'll be waiting."

*

Murdock took the phone back and made his own call, and Fisk did his best to not listen, but it was too quiet in their tomb. Murdock was speaking to someone named Foggy- the same name he had said after waking up- as he said his own vague goodbyes that amounted to little more than "I'm just checking up on you," and "goodnight, Foggy." Strangely, he didn't say anything specific about the situation, or mention that he might not be coming back.

So this Foggy didn't know what he did at night. Interesting.

Finally, the phone snapped shut and Murdock fell silent. The darkness was almost too much to bear, after what little illumination the phone had provided. He heard Murdock shifting, then fingers touched his shoulder, testing.

Fisk turned toward him, glaring uselessly into the dark. "What are you doing."

"I think your arm is dislocated," came the terse reply. "I can put it back into the socket, but it's gonna hurt."

"No," Fisk grunted, and Murdock didn't press the issue. He felt the other man trying to scoot away, but only managed a short distance, his knees still brushing Fisk's side. After a moment, Murdock stilled- and then, silence.

*

"How long has it been," Fisk asked after a while. He might have slept, but it was difficult to say. He hadn't dreamed.

Murdock didn't answer. Frowning, Fisk reached out, tentatively, and made contact with his arm. No response, but he was still warm. Asleep, then.

He was cold. He'd thought he pain in his shoulder had receded, but it flared again as he attempted to move, a bright burst behind his eyelids that seemed to light up the darkness. The joint was swollen, his suit jacket tightening around it. They'd have to cut it off- if they were rescued. No. When they were rescued. The lining might prove to be a difficulty, though.

After a moment, Murdock groaned softly, and a hand made contact with his neck, then moved up to the back of his head, searching. Fisk reflexively leaned away, hissing as he jarred his shoulder.

"Oh," Murdock said, after a moment. He sounded tired again, words slurring slightly. The hand withdrew. "Sorry." He paused, then said, "I didn't know you were bald."

"What."

"I can't see what you look like. I just know you're huge and punch really, really hard."

Fisk huffed, amused despite himself. "What else?"

"Well," Murdock said, drawing the word out as though he were thinking. "You smell like sweat more than anything, and soap. Just really plain soap? And no cologne, which is a good thing. People wear too much, like they think the way they smell naturally isn't good enough. It's hell on my nose. If I'm standing too close to someone wearing too much of it that's all I can smell and I get a little disoriented."

"Really." He wasn't sure how to process that, or whether he should be offended.

"I never- I don't think I've ever really told anyone that," Murdock said, almost sounding confused. "Why did I tell you that?" He drew in a shaky breath and exhaled it in a gust, in what could have been a laugh, and went silent again.

After a moment, he realized Murdock was breathing heavily- and then he gave a soft, strangled sob, and Fisk realized he was crying. It was awkward, and uncomfortable, and Fisk hoped he would just stop talking so he wouldn't have to acknowledge it. Thankfully, Murdock obliged him.

*

He woke slowly from a dream- first of a hammer and blood pooling on the floor, bits of hair and bone mixed in- then, Vanessa's face bloomed, surrounded by hazy white lights, speaking to him softly. He couldn't make out the words no matter how hard he tried. She curled up against him, her breath on his neck, and he felt himself reach out to her, to throw an arm around her, protectively-

The dream faded, but the sensation of a body against him didn't. He was still frozen in place, laying on his chest, whole body stiff from the cold, but Murdock was laying beside him, as close as he could get without being draped over Fisk.

It was... not unpleasant, he supposed, considering the circumstances. Murdock was keeping at least part of him warm, and it was good to feel another person- to know he wasn't entombed here alone. He wondered how long they had been stuck. He wondered if anyone was even looking for them anymore.

Murdock woke some time after him, and Fisk had to explain the situation yet again- the third time, now- until he finally remembered where they were, who he was trapped with.

He had almost drifted back to sleep when Murdock said, softly, "You really care about her, don't you?"

It took Fisk a moment to understand who he was referring to. He felt a stab of anger- that he would dare mention Vanessa to him, like twisting the knife, when he would never see her again-

"Yes," he found himself agreeing, after a moment. "I do."

"I liked her," came the reply. "Her perfume was nice. And her voice. She wasn't- she didn't even ask why I was there- like it didn't matter that I'm. Blind." His voice faltered. "She described the painting to me. People don't- they don't do that. Usually."

Fisk gave a noncommittal sound. The concussion was probably making Murdock a little more forthcoming than he normally would be. Or maybe he'd just given up. Realized they wouldn't be leaving alive. But it didn't surprise him that Vanessa had made such an impression.

"I went to the gallery to see- what kind of woman could love a person like you." He laughed. "The devil. That's what I called you."

"A little- overdramatic."

"Catholic," was the reply.

"So you decided- what?"

Murdock's fingers were fidgeting against his side, he noticed. Playing along the edge of his jacket. "You had Elena Cardenas killed."

"...Yes." And he felt the shame bubble up, again- shame at letting himself be pushed into such a move, by circumstances, against such a needless target. "It was necessary."

"You really believe that." It wasn't a question. It wasn't accusing, either. Murdock just sounded tired. "That's what makes you dangerous. You really think you're helping."

Fisk frowned. "I told you the same thing, the first time we spoke. Or, something like it."