"I don't take kindly to my guests leaving without informing me," Wilson fucking Fisk says when Matt has jerked awake again, opening his eyes only to find the looming darkness, that nothing has changed.

"Because you're such a hospitable host?" Matt rasps out, hands once again tied behind his back, this time with cuffs. His ankles are also tied to the chair's legs, for good measure.

His head still aches, his chest still aches, everything aches.

He wants to go home.

Fisk slashes across Matt's right arm, and he loses track of things through the throbbing sting of the (relatively) shallow cut. He imagines the knife in Fisk's hand, the sharp edge, the dried blood already on it from previous attempts to intimidate and force Matt to do wrong.

"I'm being reasonable, aren't I?" Fisk asks, rather condescendingly. Matt closes his eyes, doesn't answer. "If you don't drop the case, then your friends will. If they don't, then the police will. You will not win. There is nothing in this fight for you."

"You're wrong," Matt croaks out, thinking of Foggy and Karen and Jessica, who have not worked endlessly just for the case to be dropped. He thinks of Mrs. Cardenas and Ben Urich, who had given their lives for this. He thinks of Josie, and the local grocer, and the people at Fogwell's Gym, and his own neighbors who check up on him every now and then with real concern in their voices and baked goods and too much kindness for the world to stand. He thinks of Hell's Kitchen, of its people and its spirit who urge him on every day. He thinks of Jack Murdock, who taught him to choose the right battles. Well, this is his battle right here, for his home and for his people. "There's everything in this fight for me."

Fisk punches him in the stomach, and Matt gasps, trying to curl up but not being able to. "You cannot win," Fisk says, voice shaking with anger...or maybe uncertainty. "I own the police. They follow my will."

"If you're so sure you'll win, then what are you here for?" Matt asks. "One lawyer shouldn't matter in the grand scheme of things." He braces for the impact, but it still hurts when Fisk slams his fist into his face, snapping his head to the side for the nth time since he's been here, his skin throbbing from where he'd been hit. Matt spits out some saliva and probably blood, too. "You aren't sure," he says. "You don't own the judge or jury, do you?"

"Who says that I don't?"

Matt scoffs. "I do. You don't own any of them, or at least not enough of them, and you certainly don't own me." He shifts a little in his seat, and winces at the sudden aching of his ribs. "I may not win," he admits, "but that doesn't mean you will."

And suddenly Fisk is there, right in his face, breathing in the same air as him, grasping his shoulders and shaking him and Matt gasps as everything flares up and he tries to lean back but he can't, he can't. "You're right," Fisk says. Matt is about to say something, anything, but then Fisk continues. "You don't matter in the grand scheme of things." He lets go of Matt and walks away, towards the door Matt knows is there, so near and yet so far. He wants to go home. "Why should I answer to you?" Fisk asks.

He opens and slams the door shut. Matt hears the sound of a lock clicking into place, and he sighs, slumping into his seat, blinking back the tears that are threatening to spill. He feels weaker when he's alone, with nobody to act fine around, and now that he actually thinks about it, his ribs really ache. His head throbs persistently. His wrists and ankles are being bitten into by his restraints. His nose is still broken and bleeding, and he's not entirely sure if he still has all his teeth or not.

He groans. No time to panic, he reminds himself. He takes a deep breath in, or tries to, before realizing his nose isn't being all that helpful. His chest lights up with pain, and he coughs up something liquid. Blood, probably. Internal bleeding? Well, he can't exactly do anything about it at the moment.

He tries again. He takes a deep breath in through his mouth, this time, holds it for a few seconds before letting it out through the ache in his ribs. Inhale. Exhale. He wonders if he looks like his dad after a fight. Inhale. He hopes Foggy and Karen are doing alright. Exhale. They have to go through with the trial. Inhale. They have to. Exhale. And he has to survive.

Inhale.

He will survive.

Exhale.


I have discovered that I don't really know how to write torture scenes. Wonderful.