Prompt Post #6

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FILL: Legacy, or, Five Times Matt and Josie Didn't Talk; and One Time They Did. (5/6)

[(Anonymous)]

5.

The bombs go off on a Thursday, in the middle of the evening rush. The bar’s far enough from the explosions that all they lose are a few bottles; and Josie switches the TV to the news and turns it up, as customers scramble for their phones.

The phone behind the bar keeps ringing, too--worried wives; Donny, who’s got the night off, calling to let her know that half the Kitchen’s blocked off but he’s pretty sure he can make it in if she needs him. And then a woman--a voice she’s pretty sure she knows but doesn’t quite recognize, asking if Matt Murdock is there.

“Haven’t seen him tonight,” Josie tells the girl. She’s been so busy she hasn’t even thought about Matt, and now she can’t stop glancing at the TV, wondering if he’s out there in the thick of it, doing whatever it is he does.

“Shit,” she says. “It’s, um, it’s Karen.” Now that she’s got a name, Josie can place the voice--the pretty blonde, Foggy and Matt’s friend. “I’m at, we’re at the hospital, and Foggy’s hurt, and Mrs. C., and Matt’s not answering his phone, and I didn’t know who else to call.”

Josie’s too numb to think about the second part. “Hurt? What happened? Is he okay?”

“Yeah,” Karen says. “He’s--they’re okay. But Matt’s--fuck. I don’t know what to do.” Josie can hear her starting to cry for real now. Does she know? Josie wonders. “I know he always says he can take care of himself, but Josie, he’s blind, and he--he’s not answering his phone.” That’d be a no, Josie thinks.

She glances up at the screen just in time to see blurry footage of a man in black. The ticker, bright yellow against the flames, flashes new text: MASKED DEVIL STRIKES. Josie’s heart skips a beat.

“Are you there?” Karen asks, from the other end.

“Yeah,” Josie tells her. “I’m--look, honey, Matt’s tougher than he looks, and he knows this neighborhood. I’d bet he’s safe at home, but even if he’s not, I’m sure he’ll be fine.” HOSTAGE CRISIS, the ticker flashes, and Josie copies down Karen’s number with numb fingers and wonders if she’s just sentenced a second Murdock boy to death.

“I knew that masked creep was bad news,” she hears Alec Spencer declare from the corner of the bar.

“Shut the fuck up, Spencer,” Josie snaps, sliding his drinks over just a little too hard, so it splashes when it hits the empty by his hand. “You haven’t figured out by now that the news in this town is bought and sold, you’re dumber than Clint fucking Peterson.”

Clint, two seats down, raises his glass. “Bout damn time someone was.”

At the other end of the bar, Jenny Astin is murmuring a prayer to St. Anthony under her breath--for the lost, Josie remembers, although she’ll be damned if she knows where she picked that up.

Josie’s not much for saints or prayers, but every time she ducks under the bar for the rest of the night, she whispers one anyway, just in case.

By three in the morning, the Devil’s gotten away, and Matthew Murdock’s name has yet to show up on any reports of the missing or the dead. Josie’s still checking when he finally drags himself in the door two days later and settles down at the bar.

She slides him a shot of rye without saying a word, and he nods thanks, and that’s about where they leave it.