The next morning Matt lived through a repeat of the day before. He awoke from a restless night's sleep and prepared himself for another helping of commands and curiosity.
After a quick and cold shower, trying to shock his body, to prepare it for anything, Matt slipped on another suit. Again it was waiting for him, the closet giving him all he needed for the day ahead.
Matt sat on the edge of the bed and awaited his next task. 15 minutes later Fisk entered and ordered him back into the SUV.
It wasn't until they were pulling out of the underground parking lot that Fisk directed his driver to the offices of the New York Bulletin.
Matt stiffened.
Karen Page. His Karen.
If Fisk was testing him, trying to see how far this version of Matt Murdock could be pushed without resistance, it was finally working.
He had known Foggy was safely out of harm's way the day before. But he had no such assurances when it came to Karen.
He immediately imagined her at her ramshackle desk, papers scattered about, pictures tapped to the wall, her hair loose and sleek down her back. He could see the pencil drop from her mouth as she turned and found him in the doorway. He could feel her press against him in the tightest of hugs - a hug of joy and relief. A hug that would come before the questions began or before he was forced to do or say something to her he'd always regret.
Thankfully, that was all in his head, the overactive imagination of a man who had seen too much.
Just as he began formulating a plan, a way to stall Fisk or even a way to explain everything to Karen, the buzz of a cell phone cut through his thoughts.
Fisk fished the device from the inside pocket of his blazer and began reading a lengthy text.
When Fisk grimaced, Matt wondered if it had been sent by someone who knew his abilities, someone who didn't want to risk speaking to Fisk on the phone fearing they'd become his next mind control victim.
Matt didn't know if that was how it worked, but he could understand the need for caution.
"Turn around," Fisk bellowed to his driver, and without care the driver pulled a hard U-turn and suddenly they were shifted to one side, Fisk practically sitting in Matt's lap. "Careful!" Fisk shouted. "Take us back to the condo."
Matt held in a large sigh of relief, letting it bubble in his chest. Karen was safe… for now.
But by the time they pulled in front of the building and stepped out of the SUV, Matt knew trouble had found them again. As Fisk spoke with a group of henchmen, a group that had been waiting for them dressed all in black and sweating under the hot midday sun, Matt heard the unmistakable heartbeat of Danny Rand.
He was standing across the street. He was spying. And he was doing it badly.
Matt knew there was no way Danny could have found Fisk's new home on his own. He knew the Iron Fist would have needed the help of a private investigator.
When Fisk beckoned for Matt to follow him down the city street, he almost missed the command. He was too wrapped up in thoughts of Jessica.
Before Fisk barked again, Matt turned at attention. He could see in Fisk's eyes a glimmer of distrust - the first since Matt began his charade.
They stared at one another for what felt like an eternity. Matt wondered if anyone could tell that he was holding his breath. Finally, Fisk turned and began walking… and Matt followed, as did a handful of thugs.
Together the unusual posse strode down the street, weaving between pedestrians.
Where are we going? Matt thought. And why are we walking?
As they continued their journey, Matt tuned into Danny's distinctive, rhythmic heartbeats as he followed behind, no more than a block's distance away. Suddenly the sound was joined by harder, faster, more deliberate pounding - the distinctive throbs of Jessica Jones on a mission.
She's here.
As a smile crossed his lips, Matt stopped himself. Not because he feared Fisk would see - his new boss was striding a few feet ahead of him, his back firmly obstructing any view Matt might wish to have.
No, Matt stopped smiling because he knew suddenly why they were walking. Whatever information Fisk had received from that text, wherever they were headed, it all coincided with Danny having been made. Which meant Jessica had been made. Which meant Fisk was leading them into a trap.
When they finally arrived at their destination, a grimy three storey walk-up surrounded by grass and weeds almost waist high, Matt stepped inside the front door just behind Fisk, nearly crashing into him as he greeted a pair of thugs already waiting just beyond the threshold. Matt recognized the heavy cologne of the man on the right as the brand that was wafting through his loft the night Fisk first put his battle plan into action.
"Did you bring it?" Fisk asked the man.
"Yes," the man replied.
It was then that Matt looked down and noticed the man was carrying a large, black duffel bag. As the bag passed from servant to master, Matt could hear the low crinkle of fabric folding against rubber inside. He knew instantly it was his suit, a suit that should have been residing in a trunk inside Colleen's dojo.
A flurry of thoughts overcame him all at once: When did Fisk's men find the dojo? Was Colleen alright? And when did Fisk discover he was the Devil of Hell's Kitchen?
Matt formulated a series of answers as he followed Fisk further into the home, giving away no emotion that he knew what the bag contained.
Firstly, he knew Colleen was alright. He could still hear Danny's heartbeat, penetrating downward from his new position on the roof. While it was faster than usual, Matt believed that was due to the adrenaline his friend would be feeling, adrenaline caused by his spy pursuits rather than the injury or death of Colleen. Matt knew what the heartbeat of a broken man sounded like and he could smell the sweat of a rage filled man from more than a block away. Danny, thankfully, didn't fit either bill.
The answers to his others questions couldn't be definitively ascertained. Fisk's men could have found the dojo during routine surveillance, gone inside and happened upon the suit. Or they could have been instructed there, just as they were instructed to his own loft. They could have been ordered to find the suit, proving what Matt had earlier suspected about Fisk's level of intelligence and his knowledge of his own takedown at the hands of Nelson & Murdock… and the Devil of Hell's Kitchen.
Matt couldn't help but be frightened by the latter option, since it meant whatever plan Fisk had in store for him was more about the Devil than it was about Matt Murdock.
The voice of an unknown man, a man talking to Fisk in the next room, snapped him from his hypotheticals.
"It's not enough," Fisk told the man.
"We told you it might not work," the man replied, his breathing laboured, fear creeping into his voice.
"The resources you've supplied aren't nearly adequate enough," Fisk bellowed. "I need you to solve this problem, not create new ones."
As Fisk was speaking, Matt heard the unmistakable sound of shoes scraping against the tar roof above them. It was so loud, he knew Fisk had heard it as well.
Fisk leaned toward the man until his own mouth fell directly in line with the man's ear. He whispered, "Make more or my associate here will be forced to kill you."
Matt swallowed hard, perhaps too hard, because Fisk whirled around to face him. Suddenly, the black duffel bag flung from his hand, slamming against Matt's chest. It was time for the trap against his team to unfold.
"Put it on," Fisk ordered. "We have a meeting on the roof."
XXXXXXXXXXXXX
24 Hours Later
The touch of Jessica Jones' lips lingered long after she'd stepped away, long after she'd deposited him back in that alley, and long after Fisk's men had roughly dumped him on his bed inside the condo. There he lay for almost a full day blinking in and out of consciousness. As he slept he replayed the feel of her skin on his own; not just the kiss, but every hug, every touch of her hand, the time he held her nearly naked body in the shower. It looped again and again, his mind stuck on this one station.
Awake, he thought about what he could have said or done but didn't. He should have told her about Vanessa's presence in the condo. He should have explained that if Foggy was a target, Trish could be too - it was imperative that they continued to keep their distance. He should have said Jeri Hogarth was looking for her for reasons unknown. He should have wrapped his bruised hand in her hair and pulled her close again and again.
Matt groaned under the weight of those thoughts and the weight of his feelings.
Now's not the time, he told himself. It may never be the time.
He had been used to bad timing: Claire, Karen. He had let his feelings for them both subside. Sometimes he thought maybe those feelings had never been real.
Claire was his caretaker, his careful cheerleader. Each time she'd bandaged him up he couldn't help but feel something for her. She was beautiful, whip smart, funny, and most importantly she was keeping the Devil of Hell's Kitchen alive, literally. With her he was free to be aggressive and violent and indulge in the actions and thoughts he feared to show his friends.
Karen was his advocate, seeing the best in him. She viewed him through rose coloured glasses, and for a time he could do no wrong. She was beautiful, determined, passionate, and most importantly she was keeping Matt Murdock alive, because with her he was forced to be a version of himself that wasn't plagued by thoughts of vigilante justice. Maybe a better version.
Maybe.
Jessica was his… no, he didn't know what Jessica was.
Maybe that was what made this all so hard, so confusing. Feelings, Matt had discovered, were the biggest asset in helping the helpless - and the greatest enemy of clear headed, rational planning. And he needed his head if he was to survive yet another night under Fisk's roof, and seemingly under his control.
Sighing, resigning himself to the knowledge that whatever he felt for Jessica Jones it would need to be tucked away, locked up until this was all over, Matt reached up and felt the gash on his forehead. It was healing nicely. Most wouldn't notice the small, white scar it would leave behind. But Matt would know. It was almost a badge of honour - the remnants of a fight with Jessica Jones
"They were dosing me," Wilson Fisk growled from downstairs.
The condo was split level, much too fancy for Matt's liking. Everything was glass and marble. Everything was white. Perhaps it was because they'd only been there a short time, but the place seemed sterile, not the home of a man who loved art and music and food.
But the lack of extra flourishes - no extraneous light sources creating overt din, no record player softly scratching out classical music in the background - meant that everything spoken inside the condo filtered into Matt's ear with crisp clarity.
He could hear Fisk pacing, and slowly rolled from his position on the bed and moved closer to the door.
"What?" Vanessa asked. Matt could tell she was confused. He could also hear the slight jangle of her bracelets as she wrung her hands over one another again and again.
"Dosing me!" Fisk screamed in response.
Matt's ears perked again. The shout startled him. Not enough to rouse suspicion that he was awake. No one would think that he could hear them one floor up and down a hallway. But still, the frustration and desperation in Fisk's voice was alarming.
Fisk continued to storm about the room, a heavy methodical pace that he was sure Vanessa could only watch. Matt knew she was afraid to interrupt him, afraid to ask another question. He assumed this dynamic was unusual. From his own brief encounters with Vanessa he knew her to be more than capable of handling herself around Wilson Fisk. In fact, he suspected that at times she was the only one capable of actually handling him.
Yet, there they were, lovers, partners, sharing an uneasy silence that threatened never to end.
Finally - mercifully for Matt who felt as if he'd been holding his breath - Fisk said, "I'm sorry."
He came to rest next to Vanessa on the couch, it's springs singing a slight tune, and took her hand in his own. The jangling stopped.
"Just explain it to me," she told him tentatively. "Whatever it is, we can handle it together."
Matt could hear her pulse steady. She was being sincere. She had no plans to leave Fisk behind. Matt knew that whatever was next, whatever plan was in motion, Vanessa would be just as culpable as Fisk was.
Fisk sighed. "About two months ago they told me my lawyer was in the visitors' room, but it wasn't my lawyer. It was a man I'd never met before. He knew things about me, about my past."
"What things?" Vanessa asked. Matt held his breath again as Vanessa's heart skipped a beat. The question was risky, but Fisk was too tired to hold back from her any longer.
"Things about my mother," he said before pausing. The silence stretched across the condo like canvas. "About my father."
The jangle returned to Matt's ears and he imagined Vanessa stroking Fisk's hulking face reassuringly.
"He told me they could get me out of prison if I did what they said."
Vanessa didn't ask what that was, but both she and Matt knew the answers were slowly but surely rolling out.
"At first it was just a sample. They told me it wouldn't last long. But suddenly the men around me, the men in the yard, we're listening to everything I said," he told her. "I'm a powerful man, Vanessa. People usually listen when I speak. But this was something else. Almost involuntary. Three weeks later, I was able to walk out the front doors. The guards held them open for me."
Fisk sighed. The sound crawled its way up the stairs and practically knocked Matt backward with it's force. Matt understood this was new for Fisk, this level of honestly and exposure. And it didn't sit well with either of them.
"They've told me I can continue like this if I do what they say," he finally relented. Matt could hear the distress in his voice. Wilson Fisk did not like being subservient to anyone. Prison must have been a kind of torture, despite his undeniable special treatment, which included catered meals and prolonged yard time. These people, whoever they were, had rattled Fisk. And yet Matt knew the gift they'd given him was something he would never return.
"Continue like what?" Vanessa asked, her voice cutting though Matt's thoughts.
"Free," Fisk whispered. Matt heard him clearly, even from one flight up and on the other side of a wooden door. But Vanessa had trouble.
"Pardon?" she said, her sometime French accent creeping to the forefront.
"Free!" Fisk screamed, his patience with her inquisition running thin. "If I do what they say then I stay out of prison, we stay in this condo, we have our run of the city! I get to be free, Vanessa."
Matt thought for a moment that Vanessa would leave. He heard her rise from the sofa, a soft swoosh in her step. But Matt didn't truly know her. And sometimes neither did Fisk.
"Are you doing what they want now?" she asked.
"What?" Fisk snarled. Matt could hear his heartbeat, an erratic clash of echoes that seemed much too fast.
"Are you doing what they want now?" she asked again. Matt knew she could hear Fisk's heartbeat as well - how could she not? But her voice remained calm, soothing even.
Fisk cleared his throat. "Yes," he told her, his voice cracking in shame.
"Is this why I've been delivering packages all over the city?"
Fisk didn't reply.
"And what of the man upstairs? Is that what they want?"
"That's personal," he told her.
"What is?" she asked, her voice still level despite how confusing she must have thought this all was. "What's personal? The packages or the man?"
"Both."
Matt imagined Vanessa shaking her head. He caught what she had - the lie.
"So explain to me how you're doing what they want. Because it seems to me you're doing what you always do. You're in control."
Fisk snarled as he lifted himself from the couch, the springs easing back to their resting position.
"Have you been listening to me?" he asked angrily, but Matt could tell he was holding back. The rage that simmered just below the surface was slowly pouring free, but Fisk was being careful. His anger could force people to flee. It could kill. Matt knew Fisk didn't want that with Vanessa. He wondered if she knew that too, if that was why she felt free to push back.
"I'm listening… and all I hear is that someone gave you a gift. Now that you have it, you get to choose how to use it."
"A gift?" Fisk's speech dipped. Matt could tell he didn't like referring to his new power that way. "This control I have is temporary. They come to me and give me more doses."
"But you've figured out a way to dose yourself," Vanessa said. Fisk didn't reply, but his crazed heartbeat almost instantly slowed, as if Vanessa's insight, her ability to read him, to know him, had soothed his anxiety.
"The packages," she continued. "Each person is part of a network, each person is working on one piece of the puzzle never the knowing the whole. Because if they knew they could reveal your pursuits to the men who believe themselves to be in control."
"Or take it for themselves," Fisk added.
"So, you're allowing yourself to be dosed at specific intervals, making sure you keep up that rouse," she said. "But you're working on a way to make sure you never have to rely on them again."
"Clever and beautiful," Fisk softly said.
Matt could practically hear Vanessa smile.
"I am so much more than that. I'm your partner. I can deliver all the packages you want and not know what's inside them. I can have pieces of the plan, but not the whole. Or I can really help you. Your choice."
Damn, she's good, Matt thought.
"There's a catch," Fisk said, again a whisper, but Matt knew Vanessa had heard him. "If this becomes permanent, whatever I say to you…"
Fisk stopped. Matt almost felt sorry for the man who had caused him so much harm. Fisk loved Vanessa. What it must be like to love someone, yet never know if they loved you back or if they were simply compelled to love. That's what would happen. Fisk would no longer know if there truly was one person who believed in him, trusted him, needed him. Vanessa would be no more capable of free will than his nameless chorus of thugs.
"It's controlled through speech?" she asked suddenly, and Matt realized that she still didn't understand the gift they both spoke of.
Fisk didn't reply, but Matt imagined him shaking his head, a slow, methodical yes.
"But there's a woman who's immune," Fisk told her.
Silence overtook the condo. It stretched so long Matt grew concerned. He could still hear the pulses of the pair below, but nothing else.
"Then we find her and we take it," Vanessa suddenly said.
"I've tried."
The jangle returned as Vanessa enveloped Fisk in a warm hug. "But now I know. Now we can try harder. Together."