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daredevilkink2015-07-13 09:00 am
ddk_mod) wrote in daredevilkink2015-07-13 09:00 am
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Prompt Post #5
HEAD OVER TO PROMPT POST #6.
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FILL: leave the world outside 3/?
(Anonymous) 2015-07-19 06:46 pm (UTC)(link)Matt rubs at his bruised cheek, grimaces. “That is more or less what happened.”
“Seriously, Matt?”
“Piece of rebar, actually. But it’s the same general idea.”
Foggy sighs gustily. “In the future, please consider all such questions strictly rhetorical. I really don’t need to know the details. Are you sure you’re not concussed? Because that would explain--” he breaks off.
That would explain the kissing. A part of him wants to grab onto the excuse, but it would probably just make Foggy worry more. “I’m not concussed.”
“Are you sure?”
“That’s what I have a helmet for, Foggy. I’m not concussed. It’s just a bruise.”
“A nasty bruise. If you could see what you’re doing to that pretty face of yours, maybe you’d be more careful.”
Matt swallows. It’s not--that’s just how Foggy talks, and right now he sounds the farthest thing in the world from flirtatious. It doesn’t mean anything. “Does it really look that bad?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“I have concealer in my bag,” Matt says, before he can chicken out. Foggy’s covered bruises for him dozens of times, and he’s good at it; their client really doesn’t need the distraction of a lawyer who looks like the wrong end of an amateur boxing match. Whatever issues he has going on in his head, he will deal with. “If you want to do cover-up.”
“This is so not what I thought my life was going to be like when I went to law school,” Foggy sighs, shifting his bag to his other shoulder. “Yeah, all right. Come on, Cinderella, let’s get you ready for the big dance.”
***
“I really hope somebody walks in right now,” Foggy says, tilting Matt’s face toward the warmth of the light. “That would be awesome. This doesn’t look suspicious at all. Remind me again why we couldn’t just use the handicapped bathroom?”
“Because it’s for handicapped people,” Matt says. Foggy’s fingers are gentle on his face, and soft; no callus or winter roughness, the faint glycerin smell of unscented moisturizer. His touch is feather-light, but it still stings.
“You’re handicapped.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I admire your selflessness and dedication to principle, but sometimes it can be very damn inconvenient,” Foggy says, unscrewing the cap for the concealer. He sets it on the sink counter with a faint clink and dips his fingers in the makeup, the sharp chemical scent of it momentarily overpowering. Matt wrinkles his nose. “Now hold still.”
Matt holds still. Foggy smoothes the thick cream across the bruise with quick, sure motions; he actually really is good at this, apparently a skill acquired in high school drama club and occasionally put to nefarious uses, at least if his wilder stories are to be believed. His face is close to Matt’s, his breathing slow and even; if Matt concentrates he can almost make out his intent expression, the way his brows draw together and his lips purse. He has only a sketchy idea of what Foggy looks like--faces are easiest to read by touch, and he’s only done that once--but he can feel the memory of his skin beneath his fingertips, warm and tingling.
It’s over too quickly, and not nearly quickly enough for Matt’s frazzled nerves. Foggy steps back, puts the cap back on the concealer, and says, “There you go, good as new.”
“Thank you,” Matt says quietly.
“Anytime. Or, you know, not, actually--as much as I enjoy reliving my theater days, I’d much rather be doing your makeup because you, I don’t know, discovered some long-suppressed ambition of moonlighting as a drag queen instead of getting your face bashed in by criminals.”
Matt laughs, startled. “I don’t think I can walk in heels.”
“You can backflip off a building, I’m pretty sure you could do the Tina Turner strut if you put your mind to it.” Foggy claps him on the shoulder, his voice full of laughter. “Come on, we’re going to be late.”
***
The case is, for once, fairly open-and-shut, a teenaged store clerk who found herself accused of cleaning out the register drawers after she rebuffed her manager’s attentions. The prosecution’s case is flimsy enough that Matt is actually wondering if someone has been bribed to bring charges, but that’s a matter for Daredevil to investigate, not Matthew Murdock; for the time being, he sits between their client, Alicia Gonzalez, and her mother, listening to Foggy narrate over the security tape footage.
“--and as you can clearly see, this cuts out exactly one minute before the cash drawers were opened last. My client did not have the knowledge or the access to tamper with the cameras, and in fact was not, at the time of the theft, even in the building. Security cameras from the deli across the street clearly show her outside the building, talking into her cell phone at the precise time when the alleged robbery took place.” His voice is smooth, clear and confident; he’s in his element here, always at his best on the courtroom floor. Matt might be the one with the strange abilities and the shadowy alter-ego, but of the two of them, Foggy is the gifted lawyer, and it is a pleasure to listen to him work. “The prosecution has yet to present any evidence whatsoever that my client was even present at the scene of the robbery, much less that she is the guilty party.” He steps back, shoes squeaking faintly on the tiled floor. “Thank you.”
He turns back toward them, and Matt grins, gives him a discreet thumbs-up. Foggy’s heart speeds up slightly, a faint heat rising in his cheeks.
Matt feels an answering warmth in his own face, and he drops his head, concentrates on the smooth surface of the table beneath his fingers. Yeah. It’s possible he might be in some trouble, here.
***
The jury deliberates for all of fifteen minutes before returning a ‘not guilty’ verdict, and Matt accepts grateful hugs from Alicia and Mrs. Gonzalez, listens to Foggy’s pleased laughter when the latter takes his face between her hands and kisses him on both cheeks, and instructs them to drop by the office tomorrow to make sure that everything is cleared up. Then it’s just the two of them in the hallway outside the courtroom, and he doesn’t need to see Foggy’s expression to know that he’s grinning.
“Well, seeing as it’s Friday and we are once again victorious, I think we should go gather Karen and get a celebratory drink or three at Josie’s. What do you say?”
Matt shakes his head. “I should go home. Try to get some sleep before--well. Before I go out tonight.”
“That’s a disturbingly sensible idea, coming from you. Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“Right.”
“Seriously, Foggy, I’m fine. Just tired.”
For a moment, he thinks Foggy might push it, but he doesn’t. “Suit yourself,” he says cheerfully. “If you decide you’ve had enough brooding in your lonely apartment, though, you know where to find me.”
“Yeah,” Matt says. “Thanks. I’ll think about it.”
He really needs to talk to his priest.
***
He finds Father Lantom in the nave, sitting quietly in an otherwise empty pew. His breathing is slow and even and he smells faintly of incense and cigarette smoke. He doesn’t turn toward Matt, doesn’t tense up the way most people do when someone sits behind them. After a long silence, he says, “Something on your mind, Matthew?”
“Yes,” Matt says, twisting his hands together in his lap.
“Hm.” Lantom allows the silence to stretch out again before finally asking, “Are you going to tell me what it is?”
Matt takes a deep breath, then lets it out again. Doesn’t speak.
“That bad?”
“No. No, it’s--” It’s not that bad. It’s not anything, compared to what he’s already confessed to this man, and Matt wonders what that says about him, that he finds it easier to own up to the bloody swath of destruction he’s cut through the criminals of this city than one brief, confusing kiss. “It’s not that bad.” He huffs out a breath of laughter. “I haven’t killed anyone.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Lantom says solemnly.
“I--” He takes another deep breath. “I kissed someone. My friend. Foggy.”
“I see.”
“He’s a man.”
“So I gathered,” Lantom says mildly. “I doubt you’d be in here twisting yourself up about it, otherwise.”
“I know it’s a sin.”
Lantom cocks his head. “Would you like me to assign you penance?”
“You’re the priest,” Matt says tightly.
“I am, yes. And my job is overseeing the souls of my congregation. Are you in fear for your soul, Matthew?”
“I--” Matt stops. He could say yes, but even though Lantom can’t hear heartbeats, he’s been a priest long enough to know a lie when he hears one. And there’s really no point in lying to a priest. “No. Not about this, anyway.”
“That’s what I thought.” There’s a rustle of cotton as Lantom turns in his seat. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re really here?”
“I don’t know what to say to him.” Matt takes his glasses off, rubs the bridge of his nose. “He’s my best friend. It’s not fair to be messing with his head. I just did it because I thought that’s what he wanted, that it might be enough to make him stay, but--”
“But,” Lantom repeats gravely. “You owe it to your friend to be honest with him. What do you want?”
“I don’t know,” Matt says. “I don’t--I don’t know.”
“Well,” Lantom says, “maybe you need to work that out, first.”
Re: FILL: leave the world outside 3/?
(Anonymous) 2015-07-19 07:13 pm (UTC)(link)Re: FILL: leave the world outside 3/?
(Anonymous) 2015-07-19 08:36 pm (UTC)(link)Re: FILL: leave the world outside 3/?
(Anonymous) 2015-07-20 01:36 pm (UTC)(link)Re: FILL: leave the world outside 3/?
(Anonymous) 2015-07-22 03:31 am (UTC)(link)Re: FILL: leave the world outside 3/?
(Anonymous) 2015-07-22 04:57 am (UTC)(link)