The décor changed daily. It would be fascinating if it wasn’t so damned creepy. Hales watches as Fisk takes his time, moving photos on the wall, considering which one speaks to him more. He can spend hours fixing it to some invisible plan in his head until he is happy with the layout – until the next and newest image takes precedence and he is no longer pleased.
It’s unsettling. And being stuck on guard duty with New York’s imprisoned Kingpin does not need any extra fuckery. A few weeks ago Fisk had been nothing, a nobody, despite all the rumours about his exploits. And then overnight Fisk had become top dog, his ascent marked by a not so small pile of corpses.
The guard passes him an envelope and Hales feels dirty for handling it, of being part of this burgeoning obsession.
He’d heard the stories. How the pretty boy blind lawyer had been picked up, shaken and beaten against the table by Fisk in full view of the guard and Fisk’s own lawyer. That kind of leeway was not normal by any standards and it solidified Wilson Fisk’s status for once and for all. By all accounts the blind guy had stumbled out of the cell, refusing any assistance, probably hoping he’d seen the last of the sonofabitch.
Well, vain hope.
Fisk’s cell was plastered in pictures of Matt Murdock. There wasn’t an inch of white space left. There were pictures of Murdock in a business suit, lean and tall and handsome, pictures of him looking rumpled and dressed in sweats and jogging pants. A few more of him in his underwear, his body displayed and oddly vulnerable for all its obvious strength. Maybe it was the lack of focus in his eyes. Those ones weren’t so clear but it looked like pretty boy Murdock had been in some battles in his time. In all of them he was bruised or his lip was cut but in all of them he looked exhausted. More recently he was caught looking suspiciously at the lens, maybe aware of the darkness crowding in around him even if he couldn’t see it.
Wilson Fisk stood before Hales now. His gaze fixed on the envelope in his hands. He almost jumped and shakily he handed the package to Fisk. He didn’t want to watch but he couldn’t tear his eyes away as the large man carefully took it to his desk, his entire concentration fixed as he unsealed the package and reverently took out the latest addition to his collection. He almost lovingly placed the images on his table face up for him to study. He stood there for some minutes, not moving an inch until he took a step back.
And then it started again. Fisk considered the wallpapered images and with the care of someone dealing in high art he moving ones that were no longer in favour.
Pictures were overlapping each other. The few images of the tall brunette woman that had been on the wall had long ago been discarded or covered up. Only Matt Murdock remained.
Hales shuddered. The poor bastard.
There was one picture that did not fit. It was of a well-dressed and overweight man with longish hair. Fisk picked it up, scrawling something on it before he placed it into an envelope.
[MINI FILL] - Fisk/Matt, start of obsession
It’s unsettling. And being stuck on guard duty with New York’s imprisoned Kingpin does not need any extra fuckery. A few weeks ago Fisk had been nothing, a nobody, despite all the rumours about his exploits. And then overnight Fisk had become top dog, his ascent marked by a not so small pile of corpses.
The guard passes him an envelope and Hales feels dirty for handling it, of being part of this burgeoning obsession.
He’d heard the stories. How the pretty boy blind lawyer had been picked up, shaken and beaten against the table by Fisk in full view of the guard and Fisk’s own lawyer. That kind of leeway was not normal by any standards and it solidified Wilson Fisk’s status for once and for all. By all accounts the blind guy had stumbled out of the cell, refusing any assistance, probably hoping he’d seen the last of the sonofabitch.
Well, vain hope.
Fisk’s cell was plastered in pictures of Matt Murdock. There wasn’t an inch of white space left. There were pictures of Murdock in a business suit, lean and tall and handsome, pictures of him looking rumpled and dressed in sweats and jogging pants. A few more of him in his underwear, his body displayed and oddly vulnerable for all its obvious strength. Maybe it was the lack of focus in his eyes. Those ones weren’t so clear but it looked like pretty boy Murdock had been in some battles in his time. In all of them he was bruised or his lip was cut but in all of them he looked exhausted. More recently he was caught looking suspiciously at the lens, maybe aware of the darkness crowding in around him even if he couldn’t see it.
Wilson Fisk stood before Hales now. His gaze fixed on the envelope in his hands. He almost jumped and shakily he handed the package to Fisk. He didn’t want to watch but he couldn’t tear his eyes away as the large man carefully took it to his desk, his entire concentration fixed as he unsealed the package and reverently took out the latest addition to his collection. He almost lovingly placed the images on his table face up for him to study. He stood there for some minutes, not moving an inch until he took a step back.
And then it started again. Fisk considered the wallpapered images and with the care of someone dealing in high art he moving ones that were no longer in favour.
Pictures were overlapping each other. The few images of the tall brunette woman that had been on the wall had long ago been discarded or covered up. Only Matt Murdock remained.
Hales shuddered. The poor bastard.
There was one picture that did not fit. It was of a well-dressed and overweight man with longish hair. Fisk picked it up, scrawling something on it before he placed it into an envelope.
He passed it to Hales.
“Make sure this gets to Matt Murdock.”