AN There is so much history in this chapter and I love all of it and I can die happy.
Matt sat on his couch, elbows braced on his knees. Claire sat in the other chair, expression distant. They had been quiet on the walk back from Claire's home, too tired to speak. They'd barely had the energy to stumble into the living room before collapsing into a chair. Matt had managed to shrug out of his suit jacket and take off his tie, and Claire had taken off her shoes. They sat neatly beside her chair as she stared out the dark window.
Claire had changed while at her family's apartment, slipping into a dark blue and cream number with a rounded collar. This dress fit her perfectly, suggesting no hints of trauma like Karen's dress did. Matt almost could have believed she was simply relaxing after a long day at work.
The last time Claire had worn that dress, Matt realized, she had been tending to Matt's bloody nose. It was kind of funny, how every one of their memories was forged over blood.
Kind of funny, but mostly sad.
Claire took a deep breath like she was waking up from a dream. "Thank you for taking me home."
"Not at all," he said.
"No, really." Claire gave him a shy smile and pressed on. "You could have just gone without me. I…I appreciate it."
Matt shook his head, brushing away her thanks. "It's nothing, Claire. I'm just here to help."
Claire laughed and leaned back in her chair. When she spoke, she had returned to gazing out the window. "The boxing hall feels like a long time ago, doesn't it?"
Matt nodded. His worry over explaining why he hadn't kissed her seemed silly, now. Silly, and yet so much more preferable to all of this. Even if it meant probably never seeing her again (or at least, certainly never being as close with her again), he would have preferred the normal fallout of his actions. Having Claire in any capacity wasn't worth all of this suffering.
"I'm actually surprised you told the kids what happened," Matt said.
She looked at him in surprise, head tilted slightly. "Really? We tell each other everything."
"Don't you think that's a little big, though? Won't it bother the kids, knowing how dangerous this all is?"
Claire chuckled and shook her head. "You try keeping a secret in a home that small."
Matt flinched out a smile. To be fair, he and his father had done much the same thing. Things had been hard, especially after his father had fallen ill. Secrets ceased to exist once the great Battlin' Jack Murdock admitted he had the consumption, and soon Matt would have to make his own way.
Which was strange, considering how many truths Matt held from the people in his own life.
Claire pulled her feet onto the chair and nestled her face into the cushions. She frowned at the line of laundry beyond the window, waving in the wind. "Mama tells us everything, she always has. Maybe not in the moment, but she always tells us that eventually we will hear the truth."
She gave him a thin smile like she had just remembered he was there and was trying to orient herself.
"Sometimes I think the only secret in our family was how bad the war was for my dad."
Matt swallowed hard. That was a little too on the nose.
"Your dad?" he asked, struggling to remember if Claire had mentioned him before. No one had commented on his absence earlier.
"He died in the war," she said, the words simple like they no longer hurt. Matt envied that sort of acceptance.
"What's the plan for tomorrow?" she asked, continuing on like it was nothing.
"I don't know," Matt sighed. He chewed on the words he knew he was supposed to say, hating what they opened the door to. "We…I think we need help."
"From who?" Claire asked. She frowned, expression confused like she had tried sorting through their options and found none.
"My friends—my business partner and secretary—might be able to help." Matt fought back a grimace as he spoke. He had wanted to keep his friends isolated from this chaos, but it had become painfully obvious that he and Claire could not do this alone.
He had hated sitting in Claire's apartment as his own ineptitude became increasingly apparent. Reynaldo had spoken to Matt while Claire packed her things, asking again and again what Matt planned to do. Matt had answered to the best of his ability, trying not to draw attention to just how lost they all were.
"A lawyer and a secretary?" Claire raised an eyebrow, some of her old spunk reappearing.
"Hey, you can never have too many lawyers. And Karen is far more than a secretary. She has some experience with…dubious situations."
Claire chuckled and shook her head. "You've got quite the office. A bare-knuckle boxer, a devious secretary, and what? Is your partner a communist?"
"No, no, Foggy's stayed off the Marxist train."
"Good. I am too tired to hear of the wicked bourgeoisie's ways."
Matt smiled at her as she closed her eyes. She looked like she might go to sleep right there.
"I was thinking I would tell them tomorrow," he continued.
"Okay."
"They'll want to meet you right away."
"Why?" Claire cracked open an eye in interest.
"To make sure you're alright, mostly. Karen might drag you home to tend after you herself."
"Okay," she repeated, her mouth quirking at the thought.
"Where do you want to meet them? Here or in the office?"
She let out a long, slow breath. "Won't your neighbors get suspicious if I keep going in and out?"
"Judgmental, but not suspicious."
"I'm ruining your reputation one outing at a time."
Claire's words were mild, but they put a lump in Matt's throat. Thankfully, it didn't show in his voice.
"That's alright. I can always move somewhere new if the gossip gets too terrible."
Claire grinned, sighed, then stood up. "Either way, I'd like to meet them here. In your office feels…a lot more real than I'm ready for. Will they come home with you?"
"Probably not," he said, thinking. "It might be easier to have them come on Saturday. That way we have a little time to prepare."
Claire nodded, then looked down. "Alright, then." She held her hands like she was bracing herself. "And—thank you, Matt. You didn't have to do this."
"I already said, it's nothing."
She watched him for a long moment, then nodded again. "Alright, well—good night, then."
"Good night, Claire," he said. She gave him one last nod, then disappeared into the bedroom.
Matt closed his eyes. He wasn't ready to get up and make his bed on the couch like this was normal. Everything was…not wrong, exactly, but certainly not right.
Going to see Claire's family had been drastically different than he expected. He had thought he and Claire would be even—home for home, each allowed to see some inner part of the other, but that had not been the case. Something of Claire's life had been exposed, something intimate and honest that he felt certain he should not have seen. Not like in the bathroom, that Matt had earned by living through the last few horrendous hours with her. Her home, though, that was something special he had no right to.
And, it also reaffirmed the fact that he had to help her through this. Her life and everything in it was too precious for him to let fall apart. And yet, all his efforts were little more than flicking gauze at a gaping wound he couldn't even see.
How were they supposed to stop gangsters? They could try going to the police, but just as many were on the take as off. If and when these thugs found out about Claire's existence, they would be sure to lean on their connections to find her and squash any story she tried to tell.
There were always the prohibition agents, though they didn't inspire him with much confidence. The Prohibition Unit clearly wasn't doing shit if he had a woman hiding in his bedroom from rumrunning gangsters. But they didn't exactly have options. The chances of finding an uncorrupted probie as opposed to an uncorrupted policeman was better, but he still didn't like it. And how were they supposed to contact them? Walk into their office and tell a vague story about how a murder didn't match the flawlessly accurate papers and was likely the work of the mob? They would probably get laughed off the block.
He had wanted so badly to promise both Claire and her family that he could handle this, that he would keep her safe completely, utterly, without question. She would be fine in his hands, better than otherwise. Instead he'd had to settle for approximations—if it's at all possible, I'll do my best.
Maybe he'd wanted to deal in absolutes because, in some twisted way, it was as close as he would get to asking permission to court her.
Matt pushed himself off the couch, running his hands through his hair. This was a mess, this was all an enormous mess. His hands twitched, suddenly longing for a cigarette. He worked his jaw. He had given up smoking while in college. Too many reminders of France.
He grabbed the blankets from the arm of the couch and made his bed. He focused on the action instead of thinking about Claire in the next room, a girl that didn't belong for so many reasons but one he desperately wished did.
No. He had given up that chance, Claire had more or less told him so in the alley behind the tailor shop. The glassy hurt in her eyes was just a taste of what she would likely have to face if they became involved. She was too smart to go back to a man that would only cause her trouble. And he was too smart to give into a base craving.
But love wasn't base. That was the other thing.
But he wasn't sure if he loved her. He couldn't be. It would honestly hurt too much if he was.
(Not that he didn't ache over it already.)
Matt stood still for a long moment, holding his breath like he could purge the chaos inside of him if he just waited. He huffed it out, nothing changing except his heart beating a little faster. He put his hands over his eyes. That was a darkness he didn't mind; he could control it, at the very least.
When he pulled them away, he was confronted by his makeshift bed and the potential of more nightmares. Things had been good the last few days, the ghoulish mix of memory and imagining staying far away while he slept. That would change, though, it always did. It would change and then Claire would be accosted with at least part of the thing he had worked so hard to hide.
Matt shook his head, locked the front door, and walked back to the chair Claire had just vacated. He sat in it, glaring at the made up couch like it was an opponent he had to defeat.
Wesley listened to the report over the phone, nodding slightly as the man spoke. Everything thing had gone off smoothly. The tailor was dead and the newspaper article had been published that morning. The reporter had even followed up at the police station, allowing Detective Blake to nudge New York in the direction of that irritating, teetotaling gunslinger. Everything about this nightmare had been wrapped up very neatly indeed.
"And what about the assistant?" he asked. "Her name didn't appear in the paper, so I'm assuming you didn't leave her body there?"
The sense of satisfaction in his chest withered at the silence from the speaker. He forced a smile onto his face and pushed up his glasses.
"McNamara. You did take care of the assistant, right?"
"Uh…there wasn't an assistant there."
Wesley sat up straight. "Of course there was, she's always there." He could just picture her fierce brown eyes that belied her polite conversation.
"Look, we came in and the tailor was the only one in the shop."
"Did you check for her?" Wesley asked, ice practically dripping off his tongue. "You were told she was there."
"But we didn't see—"
"Did you look for her after?" Wesley demanded.
McNamara stuttered for a few seconds, then Wesley cut over him. "Find her. I need to know if she knows anything. If Solano tried talking to the police, maybe he told her something."
"Y-yes, Mr. Wesley. Of course."
"Have someone watch the store, her house, his, anything. It'll be your body next to the tailor's if you let her get away."
"Of course, Mr. Wesley. We're on it."
Wesley dropped the phone onto its arm. Of course. He had been foolish to think it would be half so easy to stem this catastrophe.
Solano had tried talking to a fed, and now his shop girl was in the wind. A whole day had passed for her to get who knew where. Maybe she was innocent, but maybe Fabían Solano had told her the ins and outs of the whole operation. It had been foolish to let the tailor be in the room when Mr. Fisk discussed business. Wesley was supposed to guard against any danger to the empire Fisk was trying to make. But they both thought the pain of death would have dissuaded the man.
Obviously, the tailor had more mettle than they'd expected. The shop girl, Claire, would undoubtedly be bolder. Even if she hadn't been in the store when Solano was killed, even if she knew nothing, she was definitely sharp enough to notice the inconsistencies of their cover story. She needed to be tied up.
Wesley stood from his desk, insides twisting. He walked to the door joining his office with Mr. Fisk's, adjusted his navy suit, then knocked.
"Come in," Fisk said, voice barely audible through the door.
"McNamara just checked in," Wesley said as he walked into the room. It was luxurious, full of dark, polished wood and expensive imports. Wesley knew it didn't suit Fisk's tastes, but it was the style for rich men in power, so personal preferences had been put aside for the sake of image.
Fisk didn't look up from his papers, but he angled his face toward Wesley.
Wilson Fisk was a large man, and everything about him had been tailored to perfection. His soft way of speaking, his exquisite suits, his very public donations to charity—all were carefully crafted to hide the more sinister organization beneath. Steel was all well and good for the average millionaire, but the real money was dripping wet. Alcohol was the lifeblood of the country (anyone who said to the contrary clearly hadn't walked the halls of the White House), and Fisk planned to make full use of it.
"Yes…I saw the news article in the paper. Detective Blake's quote was especially evocative."
Wesley worked his jaw. "There's been a complication."
Fisk was still a moment, then looked up at Wesley.
"The shop assistant hasn't been accounted for."
"Miss Claire Temple," Fisk mused. His expression crumpled slightly, but his voice remained mild.
He pushed back from his desk, then walked to one of the floor to ceiling windows. The street below crawled with lights, little glowing dots that tried to beat back the darkness surrounding New York.
"What was your take on her?" Fisk asked the window.
"She was spirited. She was accommodating and polite, of course, but that was the image she put on for work."
"Do you think she knows anything?"
"It's entirely possible. I'd imagine he would try to keep her isolated, but I could be wrong. I didn't take Solano as someone brave enough to contact the feds."
"If she does…she would continue to pull the thread Mr. Solano unraveled."
"With vigor."
Fisk turned around. He may have been large, but he rarely looked it. Now, toying with his cufflinks, he appeared more like a nervous child than a substantial tycoon.
"It was arrogant of me to discuss any of my business dealings with him in the room. I supposed this is the cost of such a mistake."
"We'll find her," Wesley promised. Fisk nodded, his smile more a grimace than anything.
"Of that I have no doubt. But we must practice caution," he said, turning to his desk. "The Russians are already giving us trouble. If the Ranskahov brothers find out about this, they'll cause trouble for sure."
Wesley pursed his lips. Anatoly and Vladimir Ranskahov couldn't even hope to claim the wealth and connections Fisk possessed, but they had an uncanny knack of producing any strange, offbeat item needed. Wesley suspected everything came through their tsarist connections, but they never said. Still, it would fit. The dispossessed White Russians had to have something if they actually ever hoped to regain a foothold in their country.
"We need to assess the damage the girl has done, if any. Then dispose of the body," Fisk continued on.
"Of course. And her family?"
"Pay for her funeral service. An act of good will from a philanthropist."
"Understood, Mr. Fisk. This will be dealt with as soon as possible."
"Thank you, Wesley," Fisk said. To someone else, he would have looked concerned. Wesley, however, knew full well that this was Fisk plotting his next move.
AN Although Karl Marx published his thoughts on socialism in the late 19th century, they didn't take off as a movement until the beginnings of the 20th century during the Russian Revolution. Vladimir Lenin popularized a brand of socialism called Marxist-Leninism and led the Red Army against Tsar Nicholas II. Those in the White Movement (opposing socialism and wanting to keep the tsar as their leader) fought to maintain the system, but were officially defeated 1917 when Nicholas was dethroned. They fought in Russia for a few more years before finally going into exile.
Western mistrust of socialism was pervasive at the beginning of the 20th century. Some supported the exiled Russian royal family in vague hopes of their reclaiming the country, but their efforts largely manifested in persecuting socialists. The US experienced the First Red Scare in 1919-1920, featuring both social and political persecution of both suspected and convicted socialists.
