AN Thank you everyone for that wonderful response! I was so excited for you to read the chapter, and you all seemed to enjoy it like I hoped :D Now, though, have a bit of a slower chapter to recover.
Claire sat in the window sill of Matt's bedroom, watching the street slowly wake up. She'd been awake for the better part of an hour, miserable and tired but unable to return to sleep.
Not that she had had much luck sleeping during the night. Nightmares had plagued her, last night's tiny taste of chaos transforming into a haze of bullets and rain water and kneeling in Mr. Solano's blood. And then when she was awake, Claire had been attacked by the headache that was her relationship with Matt.
Their argument on the train still needled her, hurt and confusion and curiosity all mixing up into one hideous mess.
She shouldn't have brought it up, not after being chased by gangsters. But it truly had been a case of now or never, that much she did know. That moment of them holding each other had been too sweet for her to let go without a fight.
And it really had turned into a fight. Claire shouldn't have been surprised, really. Matt was a fighter, after all. During the day he battled with logic and words in a court room, and at night he used his fists and raw aggression to make people submit. She should not have been so surprised when he fought her on the subject. She should not have been so hurt.
Claire leaned her head against the window pane, the glass cold on her forehead. They hadn't spoken the entire way home, and said little more once they arrived. Matt had warmed up leftovers from the ice box, and they had eaten in different rooms. Claire had been agonizingly aware of him in the living room, shoulders hunched against the world. The glances she stole of him didn't seem so precious, just then.
Claire checked the clock on the nightstand. Barely seven. She wrapped her robe—his robe—a little tighter around her.
It was Sunday today. She wasn't sure what Matt intended to do. She assumed he went to church every week, considering the rosary and iconic guilt he carried into the boxing hall.
Which left her at home. It would be for entirely practical reasons, she knew (she had to stay out of sight, and despite the preaching of acceptance for all men, Claire had the feeling she was a few shades too dark for some of the people Matt went to service with), but Claire couldn't help but think it felt personal after the fight.
Things were just too damn hard these days.
A bird landed on the fire escape outside, bobbing its head and ruffling its wings. Claire watched it for a long moment.
Men had come to kill her. Just as Matt had said, they had lied in wait and then swarmed down, guns blazing. She had almost been shot—Matt had been, though it was just a graze.
This was real. Talk of the mob wasn't merely theoretical anymore, it was fact. Her life and the lives of Matt's entire office were on the line, simply because she had been in the wrong place and seen the wrong thing.
She wrapped her arms around her knees.
It was hard to believe that barely a week ago, she had walked to work with Reynaldo. The world couldn't have been more normal, more mundane. His concern over the boxers seemed charming in a childish, silly sort of way.
(Boxers. She'd only felt safe at a boxer's side.)
She had told Reynaldo that she would know if she were ever in over her head. She was, now, struggling and fighting to reach the surface just a few inches out of reach. And if there were any more dumb risks like the one she'd taken yesterday, those few inches would turn into a ruthless six feet.
Claire buried her face in her knees. She was still too stunned to cry. It would come, though, in an hour, a day, a week. All of this would hit her and then—
A soft knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. Matt cautiously opened the door. His eyes found her in the window, wrapped tight in his bathrobe.
"I just needed to grab some clothes, sorry." He stepped inside, focused on his task. Claire watched him pull an undershirt from the drawer until it became apparent he wasn't going to look around.
She rested her chin on her knees. The bandage on Matt's arm was a blunt reminder of her arrogance. Claire had been caught up in some idyllic fantasy land where bullets didn't land and she could play house with Matt and unearth mysteries in her spare time. That was so, so foolish of her. This all had started because Mr. Solano had beenmurdered in cold blood.
"How's your arm?" she asked tentatively. Matt hesitated before his closet, pants in hand.
"It's fine," he said, offering her a thin smile. Claire made herself smile back. Matt disappeared into the bathroom.
She drifted into the kitchen. She pulled a pot from the cabinet and put it on the stove, hands moving thoughtlessly to make avena. She didn't want to have to keep carrying on like nothing had happened. She wanted to hug her mother until it was easier to breathe, or play with the kids until she forgot all her worries, or be able to sit with Matt without the air being too thick to breathe. But she would settle (she had to settle, she always settled) for a taste of home.
Matt was out of the shower by the time she had served up two bowls. He passed behind Claire, and she had to force herself not to turn and follow the trail of his cologne. She hadn't noticed it yesterday until he was right there, standing over her as she studied Mr. Solano's file, then cradling her in his lap on the train.
She had wanted to drink that smell until it was all she could register. Matt had been so close, then, almost too close to be real, with his hands splayed against her back, his mouth right there…
Claire bit her cheek and handed him a bowl.
"Thank you," he mumbled.
"How long will you be gone?"
"Not too long," he said.
"Are you going to tell Foggy and Karen about last night?"
"Yeah."
Claire squinted at him. "Today?"
Matt set down his spoon, lips pressed tight together in annoyance. "They'll only worry—"
"Because you got shot, Matt!"
They stared at each other for a long moment, both unsure what to do with Claire's raised voice. Upstairs, someone ran the length of the hall. Claire closed her eyes and turned back to the pot on the stove.
"All I'm saying is that this…is more serious now. Those men saw me, they know I have help, they're probably going to guess I'm trying to figure out what happened. They're not gonna stop."
"I never expected them to."
"Okay, I'm sorry I'm some ignorant girl who thought we could do this without anyone else getting hurt," Claire snapped, slamming the pot into the sink. She really didn't have the time or the temper to deal with Matt's I told you so. Karen had endorsed the plan, and Matt had been completely fine doing the exact same thing himself.
Guilt still chewed at her. If she hadn't insisted on going to the apartment, if she hadn't stopped and waited for Matt to catch up…
The kitchen was quiet for another few long moments.
"I'll tell them tomorrow, after work," Matt said, accepting her hurt and anger like it was the only thing he could ever deserve.
Claire let out a shaky breath. She rinsed the pot and sat down at the table. She refused to look at Matt as she ate.
Matt finished his bowl of avena and put it in the sink. Claire glared into her own bowl, waiting for him to leave. Matt paused behind her, and Claire fought not to tense. She knew she was probably being unreasonable, but she was exhausted and hurt and scared and she didn't know how to fix anything between them so she just stayed quiet.
Matt put a hand on her shoulder.
"I didn't mean to make it sound like this was your fault," he said quietly. "I…was always prepared for the possibility of violence. I'm just glad they didn't get you."
He let go of her shoulder before she could say anything, disappearing into the living room. Claire let out a slow breath. She was ready for this to be over.
Matt left a few minutes later, hesitating by the door.
"I'll be back in a bit," he reminded her.
"Okay. Good-bye."
He smiled at her, like he wanted to say something, then walked out the door.
"Come back safe," she murmured. The apartment felt a little emptier without him.
Claire cleared her bowl and walked back through the living room. She stopped when she saw he had laid out his rosary for her, the wooden beads stained a deep, beautiful red. Claire laughed a little as she picked it up. It was strange to be holding Matt's famed rosary, the one drop of sacredness that entered the profanity of the boxing hall. It felt too personal a thing to have in her hand, too intimate, like she was holding a bit of Matt's very soul.
Her smile faded. He gave her his soul, and yet he could not fathom doing the same with his love. She wrapped her fingers around his rosary, biting back tears. Claire sucked in a breath, then lowered herself to the floor.
Claire prayed there in Matt's living room, her finger tracing over the beads, her tongue almost tripping over the words. She prayed for peace, for safety, for an end to all of this madness. She prayed she wouldn't feel so hurt, prayed that she and Matt would find some resolution that wouldn't leave them aching and bleeding, prayed that her family would be alright.
Claire recited an entire decade, then returned to the bedroom. This time, she allowed herself to climb back into bed and slept for hours.
Vladimir lit a new cigarette as he watched Wesley climb out of the car. Fisk's favorite step-and-fetch-it always looked too sleek for the criminal life, even when he was flanked by a truck's worth of angry muscle. Vladimir suspected it stemmed from Wesley getting papercuts in some desk job during the war, while everyone else got nightmares and bullet wounds.
Now, though, he didn't look sleek. He looked like he'd personally fought a few rounds with a hellhound and was pissed he was late for tea. Even his bodyguards didn't seem to want to stand by him. Vladimir scoffed and flicked his match away.
"Easier to deal with, or harder?" Anatoly asked in Russian, the mutter barely audible over the slam of car doors.
"Harder," Vladimir said. "Always harder with this one."
"Gentlemen," Wesley said once he was close enough. Vladimir was at least impressed he could fake civility for a second. He looked about ready to rip out someone's throat.
"What's got you worked up?" Vladimir asked.
Wesley breathed in through his nose as he smiled at them. There it was, that perfect mask Fisk paid so much for. Vladimir may have despised the man (not that there was very much he did like in this asswipe of a country), but he certainly valued a pleasant front. He usually had to rely on a snarl and promises of violence to get what he couldn't buy, which didn't work too well with the elite of the country. Which was why he and his brother worked with irritating pricks like Wesley in the first place.
"Just a few hiccups. Nothing to worry about."
"Until the hiccups become coughs and we all get sick," Anatoly drawled.
Wesley gave him a very unimpressed look. "I didn't come to stand around in the cold," he told them flatly.
Vladimir smiled at him and waved them into the warehouse. He'd actually come to make show.
"New guns," Vladimir said around his cigarette. "Faster, nastier. See if you actually catch this vigilante."
He couldn't even keep from rolling his eyes as he said it. The lunatic burning down sills and slaughtering gangsters in the country was no hero. Vladimir thought he was just a hitman for some rival rum runners. Fisk's operation was attracting older hands, the ones who had been in the game since the Prohibition had been put into place. Or maybe it was those bastards in Atlantic City who'd done it (they had stolen a shipment of guns from the Ranskahovs earlier that year, and Vladimir intended to be paid back in blood).
Wesley was less amused. "You focus on getting the guns and cars we need. We're still intent on expanding."
"Even with that girl on the loose?" Anatoly asked.
Vladimir leaned back against the crate of guns, taking a long drag as Wesley gave his brother a lethal glare.
"We're handling it. She's just a stupid girl."
"There are more problems than that if your ship has so many leaks," Vladimir said. "You mess up a hit, you have this vigilante destroying your local producers, information is dripping like blood off a dead man. This is not good."
"And what are you saying?" Wesley asked. His voice could have frozen the Hudson.
"I'm saying you're in over your head, and your employer might be eaten alive before he ever has to worry about really protecting his good name."
Wesley stepped a little closer, making Vladimir's men around the room step a little closer.
"If you're implying you are going to try taking up rum smuggling, I'll remind you that you will get nowhere in your glorious homecoming without my employer's money and connections. The revolution is long over, and there aren't many people who believe the royal family will actually reclaim their throne. Don't antagonize the few resources you have left."
Vladimir chuckled a little as he exhaled a breath of smoke. "Yes, the sainted Romanovs will have a hard time stealing back power from the bastard Bolsheviks. But there's always jewels on the brows of kings, and some favors might get them to loosen. Plus, Russia's a forsaken armpit, so I wouldn't hold it hostage too long over anyone's head. You might start to stink."
"Show me what the guns can do," Wesley said, a perfectly careless sneer on his lips.
Vladimir scoffed again, then handed his cigarette to Anatoly. He picked up the gun he'd set out, the pointed it at the other end of the warehouse. A row of store mannequins posed, eerily frozen in various moments of delighted glamour. Vladimir emptied half a clip into them, ripping out stuffing and splintering frames and shredding fabric.
"Nastier," he repeated, then popped out the clip. He set down the gun and took back his cigarette before Anatoly smoked it to his fingertips.
"Very well," Wesley grunted. He waved to one of his men, who stepped forward with two cases of money. Anatoly checked them, then passed the money off to one of their men. Wesley stalked back to his car with a guard, leaving the rest of the men to load the guns on the truck.
"Fix it up," Vladimir called to Wesley's back. "I don't like having to do pest control."
He didn't respond, making Vladimir laugh again. It was a good thing Wesley wasn't a man fueled by his temper, or else the gun he had hidden under his coat would have been emptied into Vladimir's head.
AN oh my gooooooooooooooooooosh i love vladimir so much
