Disclaimer: the characters and concepts in this story are the property of Marvel and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.
Summary: Matt and Foggy are captured by some underworld cronies looking to catch the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. The irony of the situation is not lost on them. They're just sorry they can't let their captors know that.
Author's Notes: This is based off of a kinkmeme prompt sent to me by drewbug looking for Matt and Foggy being tortured, with Foggy having to take care of Matt during captivity AND Matt having to listen to Foggy being hurt. I can't find the original prompt anymore, so if you know where I need to share this, please let me know!
This fic will be multi-chapter – I'm thinking about 6-8, but I can't be sure until I get to the end. More characters will make an appearance as it goes. I didn't post it in Just in Case because there ended up being so much material I wanted to include. I do include humour, which stands in contrast to and seems inappropriate in a fic about torture, and I felt like an apology might maybe be in order. Sorry for offending or disturbing anyone.
Readers, you're my favourites. Thank you so much for your kind support. I hope you enjoy!
The Devil's Work
One
The ringing in his head dulls from chrome to pewter before he can hear Foggy hissing his name, "Matt! Matt! Wake up!" His chair jostles causing a web of pain to spring to life in his chest. There's a dull ache on his left side accompanied by the smell of burnt flesh: stun gun. Administered, no doubt, by one of the three strangers hovering in an adjacent room.
Matt jumps off his seat but doesn't make it very far. His wrists and ankles are wrapped in rope, so there's no way he can tear them free. "Please tell me you were trained in escape artistry," Foggy begs quietly from behind him. Evidently, they're both in the same position, forcefully seated back-to-back.
The perspiration on his wrists is only causing the rope to stick, and gradually, the hopelessness of their situation starts to overpower his initial rush of adrenaline. He isn't strong enough to break the ropes or free himself; his muscles still feel the effects of the stun gun. "Sorry, Foggy," he whispers, slumping into his seat. "Give me a minute."
More burnt flesh smell; Foggy didn't come quietly either. "Take your time. We're not going anywhere," Foggy even gives his bonds a try for a second. Nothing. Just more jostling and rocking of chairs.
The motion makes Matt's stomach roll. His head is pounding dully. Neither are typically effects from a stun gun; he's been drinking. In fact, he seems to remember having drinks at Josie's before someone sticks his memory in an electrical socket and fries a few important details away. Things like how he ended up with Foggy in a decrepit metal building. The air thick with rusted metal and rotting wood. Waves crashing against the foundation of ever-weakening supports. Matt shifts focus to something less nauseating.
"There's three of them," he latches onto their conversation. Every other word is too muted, even for his ears, but a few details emerge. One wears the smoke of at least a carton of cigarettes and a collection of rings in place of brass knuckles. Another has a patient heartbeat to match his world-weariness. Two captives in an abandoned warehouse is just another Friday night for him. He speaks in an unmistakeable baritone. Lastly, there's the hummingbird heartbeat of some young, dumb thing. A potentially dangerous mix of scared, excited, and nervous.
"Watch out for Cigarettes," Matt hisses, "he's got a temper, and even though he's not the boss, he won't hesitate to take a swing at one or both of us."
Foggy's heartbeat was steady before. Now it's a death rattle. "How will I know which one is Cigarettes?"
"You'll know."
That's not the answer he wants. "Damn it, Matt, I don't think any of our kidnappers are going to hesitate to take a swing at us."
"One will. Big guy. Been in the business a long time."
"Are you making this up?"
"Would you just listen to me?" the guys in the next room certainly are. Their conversation stops, and then there are footsteps thundering in Matt and Foggy's direction. "Just say calm."
"I am calm."
"You're not calm."
If Foggy's hands weren't bound, he'd be throwing punches, "Stop. Listening. To. My. Heart."
The trio comes to a halt nearby and takes a stance in a straight line. "Nice of you to join us, gentlemen," Baritone greets them. "You especially, Mr. Murdock. You nearly got the upper hand on us for a minute there. Not bad for a blind guy."
Matt can smell sweat and blood underneath the fog of cigarette smoke clouding Baritone's associate. "I must be have an off night," he tells them.
"Must be. Not every night you end up tied to a chair, I bet."
"Not since college," Matt can feel the ropes biting into his wrists. Blood might give him the ability to slip a hand free if he can get the skin to break. He starts gradually tensing his bicep, willing his skin to break.
Bariton doesn't notice. He starts taking a nice, intimidating walk around his two captives, "Look, gentlemen, I'm not going to lie: this really isn't the way we like to do business. So let's just all do each other some favours and work together, okay? You give us the information we need, we let you go back to you night. Sound good?"
His Brooklyn accent is muted, but Matt catches it on a couple of syllables. Helpful information in case the guy gives them the slip later. His heartbeat's really steady too, giving Matt some hope that they might survive this if they play their cards right. Baritone's not pretending to be reasonable; he's been in the business long enough that time is a valuable ally. Matt nudges Foggy, "Yeah, that sounds good."
"Sounds perfect," Foggy overcompensates. His heart rate starts to trickle into a more manageable rhythm.
"Good," Baritone circles back to his friends. Down to business then. "We understand that you have a relationship with the masked vigilante called Daredevil."
Foggy's heart goes back to a worrying speed. Matt takes over, "He has been known to drop in on members of our office from time to time."
"He saved your secretary's life," Cigarettes snaps.
"Yeah, once," Foggy snaps back.
Matt jostles his chair against Foggy's. He needs a little time to get out of his chair. They are never getting out of this if Foggy insists on torqueing up their most torquable captor.
Thankfully, Baritone isn't in the mood for conducting violence just yet, "Look, we just want to know if you've had any contact with him recently. Where, when, what he looked like, why he was interested: that kind of thing. You help us, we'll help you."
Matt's glad to start seeing blood on his bonds. Baritone's a bad liar. There's absolutely no reason to go to all these lengths to pump people for information.
Foggy runs distraction, "So the information has to be useful for you to let us go?"
Baritone's leather jacket scrunches when he shrugs. Matt can hear the small snap of a shoulder holster as he moves. He, at least, has a gun. "Correct."
"How do you define useful?" Foggy asks. "What constitutes useful information?"
"Look, smartass," Cigarettes takes a thundering step towards them and shoves a finger into Foggy's face. His other hand is balled into a fist. "Stop dicking around and tell us what we want to know?"
"I just want to be as cooperative as possible," Foggy insists.
"You're looking to be as annoying as possible!"
"I'm not the one making unreasonable demands with the two guys I've just take hostage."
Matt's hand slips a little further under the rope. He prays Foggy can keep them talking instead of punching for a few seconds more.
Baritone helps without even realizing it. He grabs Cigarettes and drags it back. He's interested, a little offended even, "What do you mean, unreasonable?"
Foggy takes a deep breath, gets himself under control. When he speaks, he sounds like his usual self: calm, cool, collected. "You're offering to let us go only if we give you useful information, but there's no way for us to know if the information we've given you is useful."
"He makes a good point," the new guy – Scrawny? No, Squirrelly. He's way too scared to make good decisions, and his voice is at least two pitches higher than his cohorts. He's a kid. Just some dumb kid. "How do we know these guys are giving us the good stuff?"
"What the hell is the matter with you?" the question's undirected, and it has every right to be. There's no limit to the level of crazy in this cadre. To Foggy and Matt: "Do you two speak English?"
"Worse," Foggy says apologetically, "We're lawyers."
"I told you we should have gone for the secretary," Cigarettes mutters.
Baritone, to his credit, really tries to be diplomatic about all this, but his mouth says one thing while his heart says another, "If the information you provide can help us catch…"
"We're not here to give you information," Matt says. He turns what little he can towards Foggy. "We're bait. The information is just to buy you time for the Daredevil to show up."
Now that he's caught in a lie, Baritone isn't so patient. His temperature creeps up slowly, along with his pulse, and it takes a moment for him to ask, "What makes you say that?"
"Nobody goes to all this trouble just for information. We're hostages."
"Hostages don't have to be treated badly," damn it, he's good. Baritone's heartbeat only climbs a little from his very blatant lie.
Matt wishes he paid closer attention earlier. He thought Cigarettes was going to be the problem. His hand slips even more deeply under the ropes, almost free. He just has to keep them talking a minute more, "Hostages never get treated well."
Baritone huffs and comes over to stand by Matt, who manages to shove his bloody hand back into his bonds before he gets caught. "I can treat hostages very well, when there's an incentive. You got an incentive for me, Matt?"
He can't resist the urge to smile. His wrist is so slick with blood that he knows, without testing, he can get his hand free. There's not much he can do right now with one hand, but it's a start. Matt smirks, "I don't know anything about the Devil of Hell's Kitchen."
Foggy is eerily, unerringly calm, "Neither do I."
"Hm," Baritone paces back over to his associates. "That's a shame. Now, I get to the part of my job I don't like."
"Oh, yeah? What's that?" Foggy demands, still mostly sounding badass.
Baritone's smile is audible, "We get to find out which of you two the Devil likes better."
Cigarettes is only too happy to clarify for the lawyers, "That's whichever one of you two screams the loudest."
unHappy reading!