Reader-anonymous-writer-If only things were that easy...
"A skull?" Foggy's voice is equal parts incredulous and horrified. "A skull? Seriously? You're not just saying that so I don't yell at you for picking fights with crime?"
"That is what the man said. And for the last time, I don't-"
Foggy steamrolls right over him.
"You do, don't even try to deny it." Foggy sighs. "A skull? That's some seriously fucked-up shit."
"I'm aware of that, actually."
"No, seriously, that's...there are no words for how fucked up that is."
He wonders what Foggy would say if he told him everything-that the skull supposedly belonged to a child. Probably nothing-when Foggy's shocked enough he goes still and silent and Matt's pretty sure he opens and closes his mouth a few times, but it's not like he can ask if that's true.
"I know."
"Now you have to kick his ass. But if he has a gun, at least pretend to be careful."
"I'm always careful."
"Your definition clashes with my definition. But whatever. Just...just be careful."
Foggy worries too much. Matt can take care of himself.
Maybe Foggy had a point, he thinks blearily at two thirty AM. Maybe he shouldn't have risked jumping that guy with the knife...or at least been a little more wary and a little less 'he's scared and drunk, his reflexes are compromised'.
Ow.
It's not that bad, as far as injuries go. He's had worse. It doesn't need stitches, anyway. He gives the area around the cut an experimental poke and promptly regrets it.
On the bright side, he did find out that Solo (Solo...he still can't get over that one), has a friend who works in a pawn shop not far from the docks. He's trying to ignore any implications of this, for his own sanity.
And also so he doesn't straight-up murder the pawn shop guy tomorrow night. That would be bad.
Although, if he were willing to go there (he's not, but this is purely hypothetical), he could ask du Maurier to clean everything up. He won't, but he could.
No. He's not going down that road, murder is not a choice.
Ohh...this actually hurts. It's in a bad spot, is all-moving his arms past a certain angle stretches it. He finds the most comfortable position to lie in and tries not to move at all.
Hell's Kitchen is quiet tonight, or as quiet as it will ever be. There's an argument right next door that's impossible to drown out, but it's not violent or even particularly heated.
Someone on the other side pounds on the wall with a broom and the voices hush immediately. Matt pulls the blankets up a bit-mistake, mistake, don't move like that again-and lets sleep claim him.
He wakes two hours later when he moves in his sleep and the knife wound lets him know that he shouldn't have done that.
"Karen. Karen. Karen."
What?
He fumbles for his phone and nearly drops it.
"Hello?"
"Matt?" She's upset. She's about to cry. "Are you...um...out?"
"What's wrong?" He had a shirt...it was right here...there! "Are you okay? Is Foggy okay?"
"C-can you come to the office? Please?"
"Yeah, I'll be right there. You're both okay?"
"Yeah, we're...we're good. Just..."
"I'll be right there."
"Okay. We're okay, don't freak out, just...hurry. Please."
Somehow that doesn't make him feel any better. Karen never calls him at night. Or, really, during the day, unless it's important. Probably because his phone-answering track record is...kinda bad.
Okay, it's terrible.
He may or may not take the shortcut involving rooftops and a fire escape, but he's mostly unruffled (apart from the newly-bleeding cut...why?) when he gets there. Unfortunately, said bleeding cut throws Karen into a panic. Oops.
"Matt! What happened, are you okay-"
"I'm fine. What's going on?"
But he really doesn't have to ask. Someone's been here-judging by the perfume smell, it's the linebacker woman. Perfume aside, something's wrong-he can't place it, but something isn't right.
"Something's wrong."
Karen nods.
"Everything's...everything's just torn apart. The drawers are out, papers are everywhere...someone was looking for something." She presses a piece of paper-thick, gritty, brown paper bag?-into his hands. "And then there's this."
"Note?"
"Yeah. It doesn't say anything, it's just got a skull, but I think I get the point."
Yeah. He gets the point, too.
"Did you call Foggy?"
"No. Not yet. I didn't..."
"What were you doing here?"
"Couldn't sleep."
Yeah, there's not much he can say about that one.
"You came in and it was like this?"
"I heard someone...just for a minute, I thought it was you or Foggy, so I opened the door, but there was no one."
He remembers du Maurier's goon, remembers what she said-his heart was ripped out. Not cut, ripped.
A wave of relief hits him, hard and sudden enough that it threatens to knock him over. Karen misunderstands it-of course she does, she doesn't know-and assumes it's blood loss.
"Matt, you should go to the hospital-"
"It's fine. Just a small cut." Well, in comparison to some. "Karen-" The perfume's cloying, does she smell it? "Don't...don't go anywhere alone at night for a little bit. Okay?"
"This is about that, isn't it. The traffickers, everything."
"I think so. This is meant for Daredevil, not for us."
"What if they know-"
"It'd be at my apartment instead." He hopes, anyway. "Come on, let's clean things up. If Foggy sees, he'll start in on his 'let's move to Spain' thing again."
