A Halo in Reverse
Author: Frost on Maples
Author's Notes: The whole ownership thing should be pretty obvious; not mine, lovingly borrowed, etc., etc. Really.
This is my followup on one of the aspects of the wonderful Daredevil series. Yes, I'm back to writing angst. There's swearing, and some imagery that may be disturbing to some people.
My apologies for my recent disappearance. Real life has been…interesting, in a Chinese curse way. I do promise that there is more coming for "In Obscuro Speculo"!
This was a tough one! Many thanks to the Beta Branch (especially Joy, Jaden & Bess this time!), for the support, suggestions and encouragement for writing, and for just being fun!
"You wear guilt
Like shackles on your feet
Like a halo in reverse" - Depeche Mode, Halo
She's drinking too much.
She realizes it as she puts out her garbage. The clink and clatter of glass is embarrassing, especially when little Emily from across the hall announces loudly to her mother's boyfriend as he's taking her to school, "Don't worry, that's just Miss Page's garbage. It always sounds like that."
She looks down, avoiding the man's eyes.
Two weeks is 'always' to a five year old, she tells herself.
Tonight, she thinks. Tonight I'll just watch some nice, brainless TV and go to bed early. Get a good night's sleep.
Tonight.
As usual, she's first in the office. She battles with the decrepit coffee maker, an overpriced bag from the little coffee shop at the corner on the counter beside her. She'll shut up Foggy's wisecracks and teasing if it's the last thing-
No.
Too many last things.
She'll shut him up about her lousy coffee.
"Good morning."
She looks up from her monitor to see Matt coming in the door.
"'Morning, Matt," she replies, smiling.
He sniffs the air appreciatively. "New coffee?"
Her smile widens. "You can tell?"
"It's definitely different than Folgers or Maxwell House." He grins back.
"Go put your stuff in your office and I'll bring you a cup," she offers. He nods in gratitude as he walks to his desk.
As she steps closer to Matt's desk with his cup (black, too bitter for her despite the fancy beans), he tilts his head slightly, an intent listening expression on his face.
She tenses, but Foggy isn't in yet to become upset and snappy as he often does when Matt does this. "Here you are," she says, carefully turning the mug so the handle is in the right direction for him.
"Is everything all right, Karen?" Matt asks as he grasps his cup.
"Yeah, why?" she answers brightly.
"I just…" He flounders briefly for words. "I just thought for a minute you sounded…tired, or upset." He picks up his cup, carefully takes a sip. "I worry about how all the crap of the past couple of months - and the stuff with Ben - has affected you…"
"I'm fine," she says, her voice harsh. "I'm a bit tired, that's all." She finds herself biting her lip, and for the first time is glad he can't see her. "It's too hot, and my building's air conditioning isn't working."
"Are you sure-"
"Hey, is that real coffee I smell?" Foggy stops in the door, visibly sniffing the air in appreciation. "It has to be. It seems to be emanating from the coffee maker, but it doesn't have the skunk odour of the usual brown varnish product that comes from that wretched machine."
She turns to the other partner, grateful for the interruption. "If you're nice, I'll let you have a cup," she mock-scowls. "Any more wisecracks will result in you foraging for your own as Matt and I enjoy the fruits of my labours."
"I'm always nice to you," he says with a hurt look. She sniffs and gives him a teasing, disdainful look. "Really. I even brought you a flower!" He pulls his other hand out from behind his back to hold out a slightly battered, solitary red carnation. "For you, milady." He bows, all chivalry.
She's unable to resist and smiles, even as she suspects it's a rescue from the sidewalk in front of the florist down the street. "Thank-you," she says with a clumsy curtsey. "Help yourself."
"What, not going to bring it to me?" he asks, looking over at Matt's desk.
"He was smart enough to notice the new coffee without insulting me first," she points out.
"How cruel!" he jokingly despairs, bowing to her. "I leave you this flower in hopes of regaining your goodwill as I suffer the trials of getting my own coffee." He reaches over to set the carnation on top of the papers on her desk before grabbing both his own mug and hers. He hands hers to her as she joins him; he has filled it to just the right level for her preferred amount of cream.
She can't hold back a proud smile as he sniffs the steam rising from his cup, then takes a sip. His sigh of bliss makes her giggle as he calls over to his partner, "Genuine caffeinated nectar, right Matt?"
A rare chuckle from Matt gives her a warm glow to go with her smile as he agrees with Foggy. "Amazing fresh ground Brazilian blend, perfectly brewed. Can't beat that."
"To the perfect office brew!" Foggy raises his mug in a toast. Matt raises his own in agreement. "If only this was the solution to the Waller case," Foggy sighs before taking another sip. "Unfortunately, bills need to be paid." He walks over to his desk, picks up a file which he hands to her. "Oh coffee goddess of Nelson and Murdock, I need you to type up these notes while we, noble defenders of justice, assess the angles in the prosecution's case." He frowns thoughtfully at the piles on his desk before picking up a bulky envelope as well. "I also need you to confirm and type up the addresses and phone numbers of the witnesses that Sgt. Mahoney interviewed. Um, his handwriting hasn't improved…"
She rolls her eyes at him. "Shut up and give it to me. If I can figure out how to stop you from griping about my coffee, I can interpret Mahoney's chicken scratch." She tugs the envelope out of his grasp and walks to her desk. He retreats to his partner's office as she takes a deep sip of the caffeinated piece of heaven in her mug with a satisfied sigh before setting the bulging envelope on her desk beside the stack of paper topped with the carnation-
Red, slowly seeping through crisp cotton, blossoms of crimson on a white shirt…
She manages to stifle the gasp, but she loses her grasp on her mug. It tumbles to the floor, coffee and ceramic shards splattering across her shoes and the floor.
"Hey, you all right?"
She looks up to see both of the lawyers standing at the door of Matt's office, concern on their faces. Foggy's watching her with worried puppy-dog eyes, while Matt… Matt is listening intently, head tilted, with a troubled frown on his face.
"I'm fine!" she snaps, turning her back to them as she goes to find the paper towels and broom. Foggy's right to get pissy when he does that, a small voice decides in the back of her mind. She doesn't understand why, but she hates when Matt does that listening thing too.
She stays grimly focused on her paperwork for the rest of the morning, wishing the pair of lawyers were in court, or researching facts at city hall, or pissing off Mahoney - anything rather than talking in Matt's office, occasionally casting worried glances her way (Foggy) or listening (Matt).
It isn't until a styrofoam container is set in front of her that she realizes that in her determined attempt to ignore the partners, she's lost track of the hours and it's time for lunch. Her stomach embarrasses her with a loud rumble as the fragrance of the container wafts under her nose. House pad thai via delivery from Thai Gardens restaurant; her favourite.
"Thank you." She looks up into a pair of worried faces and smiles, touched.
"Anything to improve the day after a morning of interpreting Mahoney's chicken scratch," Foggy says with a tentative smile as he fishes out chopsticks for her.
She takes a bite and sighs blissfully. "So good," she mumbles around the mouthful, looking up at them. "You're right, this does make things better."
"Mrs. Kwan made sure to go light on the chiles for you," Foggy says, inhaling the aroma as he opens his own container. "Ah," he sighs, "she always remembers how I like my red curry."
"Her memory is phenomenal," Matt comments as he pulls over a chair. "I mean, we aren't her only customers by a long shot, but she remembers each of our little quirks to personalize our dishes."
"That's 'cause she likes Karen," Foggy replies around a mouthful. "She doesn't have any kids, but I've noticed that some of the kids working for her and certain customers are special to her. Like she's adopted part of the neighbourhood as the kids she always wanted but never had."
Dark eyes looking into her own during a flash of lucidity - "We never got around to having kids, too busy with this or that, but... if we had, I think he would have wanted one like you."
She thinks she conceals the flinch well enough; Foggy continues expounding on the benefits of the extra chiles in his curry (inedible, in her opinion), but Matt frowns over his panang, listening. He says nothing, however, and she quietly sighs in relief.
The rest of the day is uneventful. It's just turning five o'clock as she files the last paper and starts shutting down her elderly computer.
"Hey, we're going to Josie's," Foggy calls over from his desk as he shuffles the piles into a vague semblance of order. "You wanna come with? It's been a couple of weeks since we've had a drink together."
"…Then we'll go to your place of employment, see to Mr. Nelson, Mr. Murdock…"
"Not tonight," she says, smiling to soften the rejection, trying to lighten the hangdog expression on his face. "I need to get a good night's sleep for once. The air conditioning at my place was supposed to be finally fixed today, so my plan is to hit the hay early. Tomorrow?"
"Sure!" Foggy says, smiling.
"We're in court tomorrow," Matt reminds Foggy. He turns to face her, tentatively saying, "Though if we finish in decent time, a drink may be in order. You know; either to celebrate or drown our sorrows."
"Sounds like a plan," she says, too brightly. "Tomorrow."
They watch her walk away down the street as they pause on Josie's doorstep.
"Don't look back," she whispers to herself. Don't look - Foggy's worried eyes, Matt's concerned frown will undo her, make her go running back, tell them everything, even if it destroys her in their eyes - don't look. "They're not friends. Just coworkers."
"Good idea, if it works," Dan Fisher's ghost whispers in her ear. "I was a lucky one. They didn't kill my wife and kids first."
She doesn't see Foggy nod to Matt, or Matt fade into the darkness impossibly fast for a blind man.
"What're you doing?"
She jumps with a small shriek; she'd been careful, watching the street ahead and behind with a wary eye, but she hadn't anticipated someone approaching her from above. Glaring up at the fire escape, she snarls despite her relief at the familiar figure. "What the... - are you following me?"
The Devil of Hell's Kitchen shrugs as he leans casually on the railing. "I saved your life a while back. I'd hate to see my efforts wasted."
"I'll be fine," she snaps. "I don't need you stalking me."
"It's much safer to walk along 42nd Street. It's only three blocks over," he says, ignoring her accusation. "Better lit, more people around. People who would know you." He leans forward intently. "Why're you avoiding them?"
"I'm not. This…this is faster." She falters, then regains her courage. "What difference is it to you?"
"You start making risky decisions so I have to save your ass again, it become my business," he says harshly. "What do you think you're doing? Walking alone at night, making yourself a target?"
"I can look after myself," she says coldly. "I'm a big girl and don't need a man - masked or otherwise - to look after me."
"It's safer when you're with friends, with other people, on your way home at night," he insists. "You don't have to be alone."
"In case you didn't notice, I live alone," she argues. "I'm used to it. I like it. I don't need to be with people or do shit after work all the time."
"You used to go out after work with your friends, have fun," he points out. "You weren't alone then."
"I don't have friends," she says coldly. "It's good policy to be friendly with your bosses. We get along well. They're nice to me, but we're not friends." She ignores the cold twist of pain in her gut as she says the words.
He watches her silently for a minute as she shifts uncomfortably, head tilted questioningly.
"Why're you lying to me?" he snaps suddenly, slamming his hand against the railing, making her jump.
Startled, the truth slips out of her. "It's safer." She hates herself for that second of weakness. Turning away to resume her original course home, her sole consolation is that the catch in her voice didn't develop into the sob her abused heart wants. Pausing, she looks back over her shoulder. "I'm tired and I want to go home instead of facing fifty questions from you. Go find some muggers to beat up or something." She straightens her spine out of its defeated slump and summons a growl of outrage. "Fuck off and leave me alone."
She starts stomping up the street. The lousy visibility (he's right about it not being as well lit, dammit) is the cause of her tired, watering eyes. Nothing else. She swears as she trips on the uneven sidewalk, blaming it on the crappy light, shitty maintenance by the city, the moon causing evil fucking bad luck. Not watery eyes that can't see. Not a mind distracted by an aching heart.
When she reaches the corner, she looks back. He's gone.
She stops at a small Italian restaurant and orders takeout. The elderly woman nods, saying "Buonasera, signorina," with a warm smile; she catches herself returning the smile and changes it to a cool nod as she leaves quickly as possible to go to her next stop.
Her stomach rumbles from the delectable fragrance of bucatini all'Amatriciana, and she hurries through the grubby small grocery store for the few items she needs, eager to get home.
The liquor store a few doors down is definitely not a refined establishment, but she's lured to its door by the temptation of having red wine with the delectable aroma. Just one glass. A glass of wine with a meal is healthy, she tells herself. She finds herself reaching for a bottle of the bourbon Foggy prefers to drink, sets it in the basket beside the wine. In case he drops by, she tells herself.
She carefully doesn't look into the eyes of the cashier as she reaches over to the display on the counter to add a bottle of vodka to her purchase. In case someone comes to visit, she tells herself. The cupboard is empty.
It's late when she gets home. One of the hallway lights flickers as she walks under it - its half-hearted glow adds a sickly green hue to the bleak fluorescent light. As she trudges tiredly up the stairs, her lie to the masked man comes to mind. Technically, yes, a shorter route - but she has to stop to shop in more places to get what she needs. She firmly squelches a longing for the simplicity of one stop, groceries plus Mrs. Kozlowski's pierogis and friendly chatter in her tiny but efficient shop, with her son's clean, tidy liquor store next door.
"…after that, your friends, your family, everyone you've ever cared about…"
She finally reaches her floor, then the door to her place.
…all's quiet, no one's there…
The key slips across the smooth metal of the lock and misses the keyhole (because she's tired, dammit, her hand isn't - isn't - shaking), causing the whole keyring to tumble out of her grasp to land on the floor with a clatter. The bags make her clumsy as she crouches down - not panicking - to scrabble for them. She flinches as she hears the door behind her open - a rag, sickly sweet from behind - and she spins around, can't repress a panicked gasp and drops the bag with her dinner at the sight of the tall masculine form, wavy dark brown hair over a crisp white shirt...
"…and when you have no tears left to shed, then then we'll come for you, Miss Page."
He turns from locking the door and nods to her. "Hello. How're you?" His face is round, with brown eyes, no glasses. Robert. Lisa's boyfriend, who dotes on little five year old Emily. Safe.
"Fine. You?" She dredges up a faint smile.
"Just on my way to work," he says. He sees the bag on the floor. "Hey, let me get that for you. Your hands are full."
He holds the bag for her as she opens the door, hands it to her after she sets the other bags inside. "Have a good evening," he says cheerfully, with a polite nod.
"Thank you," she says faintly. "You too." She forces herself to neighbourly courtesy. "Say hi to Lisa and Emily for me."
"Will do."
As he turns to walk to the stairs, she doesn't slam the door shut, and pretends that her hands aren't shaking as she turns the deadbolt and slides the chain into place.
She drinks more than a glass of wine with the pasta, but at least her hands have stopped trembling.
"Only two glasses," she says to herself as she carefully recorks the bottle and sets it in the fridge next to the leftovers. "It paired perfectly with the pasta. I didn't need more than one. I just liked it."
She flips through the dismal offerings evening television has, settles on a talent show with judges trying to decide between a screechy pop singer and a Sinatra wannabe. With a sigh, she leans back and listens to the debates, grimacing as the pop singer wins and regales the audience with a tone-deaf version of an Elvis Presley classic before the network mercifully changes over to the late night news.
"Tonight, we finally hear the definite list of the charges being filed against philanthropist and alleged mob boss Wilson Fisk." Her eyes snap open to see a headshot of Fisk next to the image of the vacuous blonde news anchor. "Our Chess Roberts was on the scene as Mr. Fisk was escorted from the courtroom."
The reporter is unusually polite, possibly why she succeeds in attracting his attention in the chaos of the scrum.
"Mr. Fisk - sir! Do you have any statement you wish to make concerning the DA's request to question you about the murder of James Wesley?"
Fisk stops, turns to face the woman. "I'll cooperate fully with the investigation. Wesley wasn't just a valued employee, he was also a dear friend." The cold, inscrutable mask slips, allowing a flash of grief to flit across his heavy features. "Justice will be served to his murderer. I'll do everything in my power to see to that."
Her shaking hand finally finds the remote and she jabs the button to turn the television off. She stares at the blank screen, trying to force her mind to a similar state of blankness.
Tea. Chamomile tea. Mrs. Kozlowski gave her some the last time she saw Karen, worried about the dark rings under her eyes. It helps me get peaceful sleep when I worry about my son and the taxes, the woman had said to her as she pressed the box into her hands.
She fills the kettle before digging out her small teapot and a mug. As she waits for it to whistle, she ignores the cupboard holding the bottles she bought earlier.
Tea. Tea will be perfect, help her sleep.
"Was I really a friend?" Dan Fisher asks her, hazel eyes questioning her above his soaked red shirt.
…drip, drip on the floor…
"Of course you were," she protests.
"Friends don't kill friends." He shakes his head in doubt.
...drip, drip...
"I didn't - it was Fisk!" She raises her hands in denial, and sees red staining her nails, her fingers.
"That's right," Ben agrees, voice croaking and hissing through his crushed throat. "That's Karen Page for you. She lets others do the killing for her. Lets her friends pay the price for her deeds." His dark eyes sear her. "Leaves their loved ones alone, unprotected." A sneer crosses his face. "I should never have trusted you. No one should ever trust you."
"Ben, it wasn't like that," she begs. He steps back as she tries to reach for his hand, shies away from her hands, now stained to the wrists. "I didn't mean for you to be hurt." She looks at Dan. "Either of you."
"You meant to hurt me." James Wesley's eyes are pale blue above the red blossoming through his white shirt. "I suppose I should be flattered. You killed me personally, directly. No using others to do your dirty work to kill an unarmed man that time."
"You threatened everyone I know," she retorts. "You were going to kill people unless I defended Fisk, lied about what he really is." She clenches her hands into fists, ignoring the blood dripping from them - red dripping, dripping on the floor - "I had to stop you. Before you-"
"Didn't work for me," Ben said quietly. "Still got me killed."
"Fisk did that," she protests, holding up her hands, watching the blood in horror as it ran down her arms to the elbows.
…drip, drip…
"Look at her whining, trying to excuse herself." Matt stood back and sneered. "Pathetic."
"Bet she expects us to just ignore the murder and clean up her mess again," Foggy says, looking down with disgust. She looks down at her feet to see a puddle of blood to her ankles, shards of her broken coffee mug and a carnation floating in it.
"We can't have someone like that working for us," Matt says with a sigh, shaking his head. "We'd lose all credibility as a law firm."
"Yeah, we better cut our losses," Foggy says. He holds out his arm for Matt and leads him away.
"Wait!" she calls after them. "Wait! It's not like that. Please…"
They ignore her and keep walking away. "It was all Fisk. He's the cause of all of this!" she pleads.
"Not the only cause." The deep voice behind her chills her blood. She slowly turns to see cold, dark brown eyes glaring down at her from a heavy-set face. "I didn't ignore all the warnings. I didn't pick up that gun and kill my friend."
"I had to stop you," she says weakly.
"You were warned that it was a bad idea to go after my mother," he says, "but you still tricked Ben Urich into investigating her."
"You didn't have to kill him," she whimpers.
"You knew it was dangerous," he says, stepping closer. "I was protecting my mother and myself."
"By killing a good man," she retorts. "You're a monster!"
"What does that make you?" He smiles, a cold, menacing smile that has her retreating as he steps forward. "A monster like me; we both kill people." He reaches out, pulls her closer. "The only difference between us is that you haven't been caught yet."
They surround her and Fisk, pushing them together.
"Nice suit," Wesley says, smirking. She looks down, gasps to see her jeans and shirt have suddenly changed into a tailored suit jacket over a crimson-spattered white shirt, the cuffs dripping with red.
"A matching pair," Dan says.
"Getting hard to tell you apart," Ben agrees. "You go together so well."
"No!" she, wails. "Please, no, I'm not like him. Ben, believe me!"
"But you're part of him," Ben replies, shaking his head.
"No!"
"Yes, you are," Dan says. "Look."
She looks back and down: her back has melted into the front of Fisk's suit. With a gasp, she flails, trying to pull away, but massive arms lock around her. The cold baritone rumbles in her ear. "We're so much alike. You may as well be me…"
The scream leaves her throat raw, gasping for breath. Nausea churns in her gut and she barely makes it to the bathroom in time. Shaking, she staggers to the kitchen and pours herself a glass of water. With a deep breath, she sips the water slowly, striving to slow her pounding heart, relax muscles knotted to piano-wire tension. After a few small sips, her breathing slows and she thinks there's a small easing in her tense shoulders. She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath to summon calm-
…his eyes were blue, above blossoms of red on his crisp white shirt…
Her hands shake as she opens the cupboard, and reaches for the bourbon.