Foggy made it nearly a quarter of the way to his old church before surrendering. The streets were dark and there was a chill bite in the air that pierced right through his jacket- or at least those were the excuses he used to justify it. In truth, the echo of his own footsteps made him jumpy, every alley suddenly seemed the perfect place for an ambush, the audible buzz of a streetlight reminded him that electricity had not been his friend lately, and the night itself was smothering him in an unbreakable and entirely imagined grip.
He knew he was not well, and he knew why. Worse yet, he didn’t regret it. One first required genuine repentance to ask forgiveness, therefore he could not in good conscience confess and beg forgiveness, so what use the church? It all sounded very reasonable in his own thoughts, but self-delusion was a skill Foggy knew he had been practicing for an entire lifetime. Just now, he wanted to deceive himself into thinking he was going to get home safe, that he would sleep like an infant, and when he woke the clocks would not be flashing. He clung to that secure belief every time he passed another loner on the street, jacket pulled tight around their faces and noses buried deep.
There was no need for worry, anyone that took too much of an interest in the well-dressed man wandering such unsavory streets found their thoughts diverted, old sins replaying before their eyes in perfect clarity, long-forgotten fears plaguing their every movement. At the moment he was the safest man in Hell’s Kitchen, but to Foggy’s mind these streets could never be safe again, not with the amount of bloodshed he had seen these past weeks. There were forces moving in the city he knew he did not comprehend, and half-knowledge was proving every bit as dangerous as blissful ignorance.
“If ignorance is bliss, it is folly to be wise.” The words slipped from his lips on a heavy sigh, carried through the night air to ears listening for just such words.
His mother had taught him that one, back when he was fresh out of undergrad and full of his own importance. He had held forth over supper about the injustices rampant in their town, all the things that needed to be fixed and the people best-suited to carrying them out. It hadn’t made for a scintillating conversation, but he had been so full of the fire of his conviction that when his Dad had quietly asked him not to ruin the meal and drag down everyone’s mood, Foggy had smugly quoted “Ignorance is bliss.”
Only to have his mother snap back the rejoinder. It was his first, and heaven knew far from last, lesson in humility.
“I should’ve listened, but I am a freaking moron.” He tilted his head back, appealing to the sky. He was terrified of speaking with the God of his childhood, worried that anything divine would no longer want to sully its hands with him. He had made his choice, and he was managing it in the best way he knew- alone, without involving anyone else that could be hurt by it.
That feeling of being watched that had pressed at his shoulder blades for weeks now grew more oppressive than ever, the hum of the streetlights turning to that crackle that always set his teeth on edge-
The shrill ring of his cell phone nearly sent him to his knees, instinctive tears gathering at the corner of his eyes as his body kicked into a fight or flight response. His hand was shaking badly enough that it took two tries to hit the answer button, and when he did Foggy half-wished he hadn’t succeeded.
“Yellow?”
“Dammit, Foggy, he’s dead. Your perp is dead.” Brett’s voice came through the line as an angry whisper, so soft Foggy had to press a free finger to his ear to block out the ambient noise of the neighborhood.
“What?” His bloodless lips almost refused to shape the word.
“Hung himself. That’s what I’ve been told to say, but he couldn’t have done it and I don’t fucking know if it was one of ours or-” Brett cut off, the sound of running feet coming from a distance. He resumed again, quieter still and more intense, “One of ours or someone outside. I thought you said he would live?”
“I didn’t ask for him to die, I wanted to put him away. I wanted…We had him, Brett. What the hell, we had him.”
“Where are you? Are you home?”
“Out.”
“Get home and stay there. Shit is hitting the fan. Do you have any-”
“No. Fuck no, No firearms, no weapons, keep them out of my apartment.”
“Fucking stubborn.” Brett growled, but there was no heat in the words. He had known what the answer would be before he ever asked and respected it too much to press. “Guess it doesn’t matter though, considering who you’re dealing with.”
“I need to go. Keep me posted, all right?” He was going to hurl, it was no longer a question of ‘if’ but ‘when’.
“I’ll do what I can. Tomorrow. Get some sleep. Enough for both of us.” The line went dead before Foggy could think of a cavalier rejoinder. He couldn’t remember ever having felt so terrible, so ill that even taking the next step felt like it should be beyond him.
He had honored his half of the deal, had been so careful with his wording and intentions. How had the Devil slipped by him? The Father of Lies, appearing as an angel of light- no, no it didn’t make sense. The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen was no fallen angel, for all the face he wore now could have come from one. And if he was not strictly aboveboard in his dealings, he had a reputation for painstakingly fair dealing when it came to honoring his bargains. He lengthened his strides, making for the false safety of his home, reviewing memories he knew were flawed.
How many times had he questioned a witness that earnestly maintained their story was true despite all evidence to the contrary? Some of them believed it, he could read it in their eyes and see it in their open, vulnerable gestures. The image on camera could not lie, but every one of them claimed their eyes could not have deceived them. Memory was fickle, too colored by perception. Had he been as careful as he thought or could this death be laid at his door? Did he dare to seek out the Devil again, to confront him?
Yes. Foggy knew he wouldn’t rest well until he knew what his part in this had been. The thought of facing down the smiling man again was not half so frightening as the thought of dying with another man’s blood on his hands all unaware.
Besides, he comforted himself, there was no guarantee the Devil had any further use for him, and if he didn’t then there could be no danger.
Somehow though he knew it might make him feel better to speak the words aloud, Foggy couldn’t quite bring himself to. No one knew how the Devil found his debtors, but personally he had always suspected that no less than the Devil himself was behind all those cautions about the power of words that could not be recalled. He kept his fears and doubts locked tightly behind his lips, hands clenched tightly in his pockets, and eyes wide open.
The darkness fled at Foggy’s entrance, retreating to Matt’s side, gathering at his back with the equivalent of an offended hiss; it sought his protection, desperately preserving its own existence from Nelson’s vicious determination to eradicate it wherever it was found. Tonight, as he had done every night since first he had met him, Matt waited. He tolerated it when Foggy instinctively threw on every light in his home, trying to chase away the last vestige of the Devil’s sanctuary. It was never wholly effective. There were always shreds and tatters to be found that Matt drew about himself as easily as the folds of a familiar coat.
The Devil stirred in him, remembering times before when the streets had not been bathed in such unforgiving brightness and the moon had provided her subjects with all the cover needed for their dealings. They had been many then, but from the first day man learned to strike fire their number had begun to diminish. Men took light and iron, silver and prayers with them wherever they went, everywhere they went, hardly remembering why. Their fear was no more than a lingering impression bequeathed by ancestors and old stories. The spirit resented that more deeply than even Matt’s vengeful nature could appreciate.
Nelson was agitated. Matt forced himself to notice it, wresting back his own memories with a vicious twist of concentration it had taken him the better part of a decade to master. From tomorrow onward he would need to be Matt Murdock in truth, and he was woefully out of practice. He never had been certain of who he might have been without the spirit’s intervention, too young and malleable to have an impression of self beyond what his only family meant to him.
The sour vinegar stench of cheap wine assaulted his nose, but Nelson didn’t bother with a glass. He rarely did these days; only a sip or two, only enough that he believed it would loosen his violin-string tight muscles and slow his wildly racing heart. Tonight the wine mingled with another scent- the salt of unshed tears and a tang of stress hormones in sweat.
Ah. He had heard then.
“Are you there?” Nelson murmured, unnaturally still, ready to flee but forcing himself to stand his ground. “The lights are out every morning, I barely sleep. Is that you or me?” He swallowed hard, stripping the tie from his neck as though it were a noose strangling the life from him. “You know what, forget I asked. I don’t want to know. Forget all of this, I’m sorry I ever talked to you and it’s not happening again.” A sharp clack of his teeth punctuated the statement. Foggy knew he was a good attorney, and half of being a good attorney was knowing when to speak and when to wait.
Nelson was wrong though, if he thought they were not speaking again. Matt Murdock had a nine-thirty appointment, and once he was in it would take nothing short of a literal miracle to force him out.
He followed Foggy to the smaller bedroom, reveling in its peculiar silence. Everywhere else in the apartment they could hear neighbors conversing, rough-housing, cleaning, living and even for Foggy it grew overwhelming. But though he had no care for it, the void protected Foggy here. It deadened the noise until even Matt felt more at ease, chased away the cold that always managed to seep through the walls in early winter and sought out any shelter near him. He drew the darkness naturally, in the same way Matt had when he was young, but where in one it had sought a kindred spirit, from the other it craved only warmth.
Nothingness was always cold. The mere thought was enough to shake Matt’s concentration, leading to another desperate yet contained struggle with the spirit within, another fumbling attempt to keep his ephemeral shield firmly in place between his own plane and the Human one. He could feel Foggy’s eyes lingering on the place where he would have been, could hear the catch in his breathing when he thought he might have seen something, the relieved sigh when he decided it was no more than a trick of the light.
True to his word, Foggy did not speak. He choked on every attempted prayer, eyes still fixed on that corner that had been not quite right for all of a second. There were so many questions tumbling around in his head, so much guilt weighing him down and already he was so weary…
It felt like a betrayal when sleep took him at last, mercifully deep and dreamless. No sooner had it claimed him than the lights flashed once, swallowed up by an eager darkness.
From the corner of the room the Devil stepped out, taking up his silent vigil at Nelson’s bedside. Come tomorrow there would be no more need for this, Foggy would turn to him each day and Matt could guide him in the way he needed to go, hopefully well enough that it would save both their souls. If not, then at least one of them would be saved. Matt still had not decided who. Seeing the way Foggy’s soul flickered and burned he knew who it ought to be, but he had been too long the Devil’s companion to ever deal justly.
The tables turned in Foggy’s favor nights like tonight, reminding Matt that he had made his deal for a cause greater than himself. The child he had been would have been ashamed he even contemplated saving himself at the expense of another.
Beside him, Foggy began to twist and writhe, alternately grabbing for his blankets and pushing them away, heartbeat far above what it should have been even awake. Nightmares, and no wonder.
Wesley had taken matters into his own hands again, eliminating the threat where it was found. Matt delighted in it even as he knew it would make any future negotiations with Nelson far more difficult. He had abided by their terms in the strictest sense- Foggy had his first day in court, had thrown the man into a cell he likely never would have left once the case was through. It was none of his doing that the man was dead. Nelson hadn’t made the deal for his life, that would not have come half so cheaply.
They would discuss it in the morning as the first order of business.
He stayed for hours, listening again to the few memories the apartment held, basking in the feeling of security that blanketed all the rooms. Even now he did not feel he was in danger; Matt was no longer sure whether it was confidence or arrogance on his part to think he could best the Devil.
But he did, a little. Nelson was convinced it would all come out right in the end with the sort of determined optimism Matt and the Devil concurred should be reserved for children. It was infectious, but not so much that Matt would ever fall prey to it. So he kept watch, stayed near, wove nightmares and dreams in equal measure and tasted what little he could of Nelson’s hope and spirit.
The Devil wore pinstripes. Foggy knew because that was exactly who greeted him as he strode into his office at nine-thirty on the dot to meet with one Matthew Murdock. He looked different in the daylight, smaller and less threatening, his unsettling shadows banished to wherever they went when they were not with him. Foggy was not fooled.
“What the hell are you doing here?” He kept his voice low, still hoarse with the morning cold and lack of sleep. Karen was in the next room, all unaware of who she had admitted by their front door. Until he knew why the creature was here he wasn’t going to alert her to it. Safer for both of them that way.
“Did you not want me?” That curious tilt to his head, the one he had given Foggy when he proffered the hank of hair. The same smile, mild as milk but filled with teeth.
Foggy didn’t want to see it, not now and not with this… man, but he was beautiful. It was more an attitude than any particular feature, there in the arrogant set of his shoulders, the mischievous tilt to his chin, just the right tinge of challenge in it to make his opponent respond. His movements were preternaturally graceful when he took the chair before Foggy’s desk, folding a musician’s slender hands about his cane, crossing his legs nonchalantly for all the world as though he was welcome here.
Like every word that came from his mouth it was all deceit, Foggy thought uncharitably. There was no warmth in his smile, the mute challenge calculated to provoke his prey into action, those seemingly gentle hands were covered in scars that caught the sunlight just so, lines of silver and faded pink about the knuckles. Foggy fixated on that. His scars made him seem human, wrote a story in his skin Foggy would have given his soul to know. The dimple at the corner of the Devil’s mouth said he knew as much, suggested it might be a deal he was willing to make.
“I don’t want you here. I don’t want you anywhere near me.” All true.
“Were you in the prison last night too?” Foggy growled, yanking his chair out with suppressed violence and leaning across the desk in an attitude of attack. He jumped when the Devil swarmed across the desk to meet him halfway, their hands so close they nearly touched. Sparks of awareness raced across his skin, compounded by pure adrenaline. He wanted to pull away, but that would be giving ground.
The Devil's Due Part 2.2
He knew he was not well, and he knew why. Worse yet, he didn’t regret it. One first required genuine repentance to ask forgiveness, therefore he could not in good conscience confess and beg forgiveness, so what use the church? It all sounded very reasonable in his own thoughts, but self-delusion was a skill Foggy knew he had been practicing for an entire lifetime. Just now, he wanted to deceive himself into thinking he was going to get home safe, that he would sleep like an infant, and when he woke the clocks would not be flashing. He clung to that secure belief every time he passed another loner on the street, jacket pulled tight around their faces and noses buried deep.
There was no need for worry, anyone that took too much of an interest in the well-dressed man wandering such unsavory streets found their thoughts diverted, old sins replaying before their eyes in perfect clarity, long-forgotten fears plaguing their every movement. At the moment he was the safest man in Hell’s Kitchen, but to Foggy’s mind these streets could never be safe again, not with the amount of bloodshed he had seen these past weeks. There were forces moving in the city he knew he did not comprehend, and half-knowledge was proving every bit as dangerous as blissful ignorance.
“If ignorance is bliss, it is folly to be wise.” The words slipped from his lips on a heavy sigh, carried through the night air to ears listening for just such words.
His mother had taught him that one, back when he was fresh out of undergrad and full of his own importance. He had held forth over supper about the injustices rampant in their town, all the things that needed to be fixed and the people best-suited to carrying them out. It hadn’t made for a scintillating conversation, but he had been so full of the fire of his conviction that when his Dad had quietly asked him not to ruin the meal and drag down everyone’s mood, Foggy had smugly quoted “Ignorance is bliss.”
Only to have his mother snap back the rejoinder. It was his first, and heaven knew far from last, lesson in humility.
“I should’ve listened, but I am a freaking moron.” He tilted his head back, appealing to the sky. He was terrified of speaking with the God of his childhood, worried that anything divine would no longer want to sully its hands with him. He had made his choice, and he was managing it in the best way he knew- alone, without involving anyone else that could be hurt by it.
That feeling of being watched that had pressed at his shoulder blades for weeks now grew more oppressive than ever, the hum of the streetlights turning to that crackle that always set his teeth on edge-
The shrill ring of his cell phone nearly sent him to his knees, instinctive tears gathering at the corner of his eyes as his body kicked into a fight or flight response. His hand was shaking badly enough that it took two tries to hit the answer button, and when he did Foggy half-wished he hadn’t succeeded.
“Yellow?”
“Dammit, Foggy, he’s dead. Your perp is dead.” Brett’s voice came through the line as an angry whisper, so soft Foggy had to press a free finger to his ear to block out the ambient noise of the neighborhood.
“What?” His bloodless lips almost refused to shape the word.
“Hung himself. That’s what I’ve been told to say, but he couldn’t have done it and I don’t fucking know if it was one of ours or-” Brett cut off, the sound of running feet coming from a distance. He resumed again, quieter still and more intense, “One of ours or someone outside. I thought you said he would live?”
“I didn’t ask for him to die, I wanted to put him away. I wanted…We had him, Brett. What the hell, we had him.”
“Where are you? Are you home?”
“Out.”
“Get home and stay there. Shit is hitting the fan. Do you have any-”
“No. Fuck no, No firearms, no weapons, keep them out of my apartment.”
“Fucking stubborn.” Brett growled, but there was no heat in the words. He had known what the answer would be before he ever asked and respected it too much to press. “Guess it doesn’t matter though, considering who you’re dealing with.”
“I need to go. Keep me posted, all right?” He was going to hurl, it was no longer a question of ‘if’ but ‘when’.
“I’ll do what I can. Tomorrow. Get some sleep. Enough for both of us.” The line went dead before Foggy could think of a cavalier rejoinder. He couldn’t remember ever having felt so terrible, so ill that even taking the next step felt like it should be beyond him.
He had honored his half of the deal, had been so careful with his wording and intentions. How had the Devil slipped by him? The Father of Lies, appearing as an angel of light- no, no it didn’t make sense. The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen was no fallen angel, for all the face he wore now could have come from one. And if he was not strictly aboveboard in his dealings, he had a reputation for painstakingly fair dealing when it came to honoring his bargains. He lengthened his strides, making for the false safety of his home, reviewing memories he knew were flawed.
How many times had he questioned a witness that earnestly maintained their story was true despite all evidence to the contrary? Some of them believed it, he could read it in their eyes and see it in their open, vulnerable gestures. The image on camera could not lie, but every one of them claimed their eyes could not have deceived them. Memory was fickle, too colored by perception. Had he been as careful as he thought or could this death be laid at his door? Did he dare to seek out the Devil again, to confront him?
Yes. Foggy knew he wouldn’t rest well until he knew what his part in this had been. The thought of facing down the smiling man again was not half so frightening as the thought of dying with another man’s blood on his hands all unaware.
Besides, he comforted himself, there was no guarantee the Devil had any further use for him, and if he didn’t then there could be no danger.
Somehow though he knew it might make him feel better to speak the words aloud, Foggy couldn’t quite bring himself to. No one knew how the Devil found his debtors, but personally he had always suspected that no less than the Devil himself was behind all those cautions about the power of words that could not be recalled. He kept his fears and doubts locked tightly behind his lips, hands clenched tightly in his pockets, and eyes wide open.
The darkness fled at Foggy’s entrance, retreating to Matt’s side, gathering at his back with the equivalent of an offended hiss; it sought his protection, desperately preserving its own existence from Nelson’s vicious determination to eradicate it wherever it was found. Tonight, as he had done every night since first he had met him, Matt waited. He tolerated it when Foggy instinctively threw on every light in his home, trying to chase away the last vestige of the Devil’s sanctuary. It was never wholly effective. There were always shreds and tatters to be found that Matt drew about himself as easily as the folds of a familiar coat.
The Devil stirred in him, remembering times before when the streets had not been bathed in such unforgiving brightness and the moon had provided her subjects with all the cover needed for their dealings. They had been many then, but from the first day man learned to strike fire their number had begun to diminish. Men took light and iron, silver and prayers with them wherever they went, everywhere they went, hardly remembering why. Their fear was no more than a lingering impression bequeathed by ancestors and old stories. The spirit resented that more deeply than even Matt’s vengeful nature could appreciate.
Nelson was agitated. Matt forced himself to notice it, wresting back his own memories with a vicious twist of concentration it had taken him the better part of a decade to master. From tomorrow onward he would need to be Matt Murdock in truth, and he was woefully out of practice. He never had been certain of who he might have been without the spirit’s intervention, too young and malleable to have an impression of self beyond what his only family meant to him.
The sour vinegar stench of cheap wine assaulted his nose, but Nelson didn’t bother with a glass. He rarely did these days; only a sip or two, only enough that he believed it would loosen his violin-string tight muscles and slow his wildly racing heart. Tonight the wine mingled with another scent- the salt of unshed tears and a tang of stress hormones in sweat.
Ah. He had heard then.
“Are you there?” Nelson murmured, unnaturally still, ready to flee but forcing himself to stand his ground. “The lights are out every morning, I barely sleep. Is that you or me?” He swallowed hard, stripping the tie from his neck as though it were a noose strangling the life from him. “You know what, forget I asked. I don’t want to know. Forget all of this, I’m sorry I ever talked to you and it’s not happening again.” A sharp clack of his teeth punctuated the statement. Foggy knew he was a good attorney, and half of being a good attorney was knowing when to speak and when to wait.
Nelson was wrong though, if he thought they were not speaking again. Matt Murdock had a nine-thirty appointment, and once he was in it would take nothing short of a literal miracle to force him out.
He followed Foggy to the smaller bedroom, reveling in its peculiar silence. Everywhere else in the apartment they could hear neighbors conversing, rough-housing, cleaning, living and even for Foggy it grew overwhelming. But though he had no care for it, the void protected Foggy here. It deadened the noise until even Matt felt more at ease, chased away the cold that always managed to seep through the walls in early winter and sought out any shelter near him. He drew the darkness naturally, in the same way Matt had when he was young, but where in one it had sought a kindred spirit, from the other it craved only warmth.
Nothingness was always cold. The mere thought was enough to shake Matt’s concentration, leading to another desperate yet contained struggle with the spirit within, another fumbling attempt to keep his ephemeral shield firmly in place between his own plane and the Human one. He could feel Foggy’s eyes lingering on the place where he would have been, could hear the catch in his breathing when he thought he might have seen something, the relieved sigh when he decided it was no more than a trick of the light.
True to his word, Foggy did not speak. He choked on every attempted prayer, eyes still fixed on that corner that had been not quite right for all of a second. There were so many questions tumbling around in his head, so much guilt weighing him down and already he was so weary…
It felt like a betrayal when sleep took him at last, mercifully deep and dreamless. No sooner had it claimed him than the lights flashed once, swallowed up by an eager darkness.
From the corner of the room the Devil stepped out, taking up his silent vigil at Nelson’s bedside. Come tomorrow there would be no more need for this, Foggy would turn to him each day and Matt could guide him in the way he needed to go, hopefully well enough that it would save both their souls. If not, then at least one of them would be saved. Matt still had not decided who. Seeing the way Foggy’s soul flickered and burned he knew who it ought to be, but he had been too long the Devil’s companion to ever deal justly.
The tables turned in Foggy’s favor nights like tonight, reminding Matt that he had made his deal for a cause greater than himself. The child he had been would have been ashamed he even contemplated saving himself at the expense of another.
Beside him, Foggy began to twist and writhe, alternately grabbing for his blankets and pushing them away, heartbeat far above what it should have been even awake. Nightmares, and no wonder.
Wesley had taken matters into his own hands again, eliminating the threat where it was found. Matt delighted in it even as he knew it would make any future negotiations with Nelson far more difficult. He had abided by their terms in the strictest sense- Foggy had his first day in court, had thrown the man into a cell he likely never would have left once the case was through. It was none of his doing that the man was dead. Nelson hadn’t made the deal for his life, that would not have come half so cheaply.
They would discuss it in the morning as the first order of business.
He stayed for hours, listening again to the few memories the apartment held, basking in the feeling of security that blanketed all the rooms. Even now he did not feel he was in danger; Matt was no longer sure whether it was confidence or arrogance on his part to think he could best the Devil.
But he did, a little. Nelson was convinced it would all come out right in the end with the sort of determined optimism Matt and the Devil concurred should be reserved for children. It was infectious, but not so much that Matt would ever fall prey to it. So he kept watch, stayed near, wove nightmares and dreams in equal measure and tasted what little he could of Nelson’s hope and spirit.
The Devil wore pinstripes. Foggy knew because that was exactly who greeted him as he strode into his office at nine-thirty on the dot to meet with one Matthew Murdock. He looked different in the daylight, smaller and less threatening, his unsettling shadows banished to wherever they went when they were not with him. Foggy was not fooled.
“What the hell are you doing here?” He kept his voice low, still hoarse with the morning cold and lack of sleep. Karen was in the next room, all unaware of who she had admitted by their front door. Until he knew why the creature was here he wasn’t going to alert her to it. Safer for both of them that way.
“Did you not want me?” That curious tilt to his head, the one he had given Foggy when he proffered the hank of hair. The same smile, mild as milk but filled with teeth.
Foggy didn’t want to see it, not now and not with this… man, but he was beautiful. It was more an attitude than any particular feature, there in the arrogant set of his shoulders, the mischievous tilt to his chin, just the right tinge of challenge in it to make his opponent respond. His movements were preternaturally graceful when he took the chair before Foggy’s desk, folding a musician’s slender hands about his cane, crossing his legs nonchalantly for all the world as though he was welcome here.
Like every word that came from his mouth it was all deceit, Foggy thought uncharitably. There was no warmth in his smile, the mute challenge calculated to provoke his prey into action, those seemingly gentle hands were covered in scars that caught the sunlight just so, lines of silver and faded pink about the knuckles. Foggy fixated on that. His scars made him seem human, wrote a story in his skin Foggy would have given his soul to know. The dimple at the corner of the Devil’s mouth said he knew as much, suggested it might be a deal he was willing to make.
“I don’t want you here. I don’t want you anywhere near me.” All true.
“Were you in the prison last night too?” Foggy growled, yanking his chair out with suppressed violence and leaning across the desk in an attitude of attack. He jumped when the Devil swarmed across the desk to meet him halfway, their hands so close they nearly touched. Sparks of awareness raced across his skin, compounded by pure adrenaline. He wanted to pull away, but that would be giving ground.