𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖔𝖒𝖊𝖉𝖆 ❈

usually, matt fought sleep like his life depended on it. there was always a looming hypothetical, a 'what if' if he laid down & took a proper rest. what if someone got hurt? what if he missed something important? what if someone needed him? it made it difficult to indulge in anything but a heavy-lidded snooze. he was lucky if he got a few hours a night.

perhaps this is why sleeping next to elliott is such bliss.

matt is curled into him, eyes shut until that damned alarm goes off. there was an unspoken security in being with him, an understanding that this... this required them each to lay down their natures at the foot of the bed. at first, he had been terrified at the notion of having elliott stay here. but every reverent touch lulled him into a sense of understanding.

instead of thrashing & fighting & chewing their way toward divinity they found it in the spaces between breaths. matt has woken up a few times, barely, always lulled back to sleep by the heat simmering under elliott's skin. a world on fire was nothing compared to the way elliott burned. it was too hot for how gentle he had treated matt this morning.

" five more minutes, " he insists, sliding his arm around elliott's waist to emphasize the sentiment, " unless you think that's enough time for the paparazzi to appear. maybe they can smell the scandal, the next big scoop. "

“Alright, counselor. Save it for the jury box,” Elliott muttered with a half-hearted roll of his eyes, unable to help himself. His fingers idly brushed along the back of Matt’s shoulder, tracing over the familiar map of jagged, half-healed scars — ones he found himself committing to memory with every encounter.

“For what it’s worth, though,” he added gruffly, voice low, “if a blind lawyer can eavesdrop on a phone call three blocks away, a pap bein’ able to smell my location isn't that fucking wild of an idea.”

Argumentative as ever — that wouldn’t change no matter the mood — but Matt’s touch was enough to soften his edges. A kiss to his jaw, then his lips, and suddenly there was a reluctant smile tugging at the corners of Elliott’s mouth. “Not badly enough, apparently.” Not at all, actually, evident by the way he stayed put.

" what? scared of something that might hit back? " a smirk tugs at his lips & the words jump from him. though he wears a veil of sarcasm, a challenge breaks through. perhaps he should be a little more careful, but they day had been long & the night before longer. he was itching for a fight & he found one in the implication he couldn't.

maybe he should have taken the sentiment with a little more grace, but how could he? he had been coming to fogwell's since he could walk & the other's words felt some sort of personal. of course, he had no way of knowing that, but the fact did little to deter matt. his body coils with anticipation, simmering.

it doesn't help that the other's voice is almost familiar, hovering on the edges of his mind. matt is sure he's heard it before, maybe on the television. on the street...? it draws him in a little more, his interest piqued. he arches his back a little before bending it one way & then the other in another preemptive stretch. even if his request won't be indulged, he's still got a bunching bag with his name written all over it.

The retort pulls at his brows, caught off guard — amusedly so — by the casual bite coming from someone he’s pegged as the buttoned-up, clean-shaven type. Weren't most lawyers obsessed with curating every single word that comes out of their mouths? “Murdock, right?” he calls out to clarify, though he’s completely certain it’s him — the glasses unmistakable from the images he’s seen in the newspaper.

“More like I’m not trying to add another court date to my schedule,” he fires back, giving the man across the gym a slow, assessing once-over. Not that Elliott has any kind of notable rap sheet—his time in court is usually spent sitting stiff in some overpriced suit, stuck in mediations or giving testimony no one’s really listening to.

Still. He doesn’t need to end up there again for accidentally beating the lawyer into a bloody pulp. There are some things being rich can’t automatically fix.

Alas, Matt’s words strike a chord, competition burning at his palms. “What the hell,” he murmurs, tossing the wet towel aside before moving to climb into the ring. He shakes out his arms, cracking his neck from side to side. “You like getting your ass kicked out of the courtroom, too?” Elliott teases, a wicked smirk tugging at his lips.

It was a lovely wake. There was, of course, a bit more wailing and gnashing of teeth than she'd have preferred, but that's Catholics for you. She can appreciate a performance around death, even if she finds it tiresome in the moment. She'd hired a pianist to play during the viewing, while she delicately dabbed at her eyes and ran her fingers along the rosary his grandmother had pressed into her hand and thanked everyone for coming. She managed not to wince while she was hugged and kissed on the cheek and held by the arms, despite the bruises still visible and certainly still felt. She played her role to perfection.

And now she's done. She'll be selling the house. She hates that place. There's not a room in there that hasn't been a fucking horror show at some point or another. Selling the furniture. Selling his precious fucking art collection—no, she thinks, she'll donate that to Hawke Enterprises, let them use it for another of their charity auctions. There's something particularly sweet about his greatest prize funding her independence, her own business interests.

Astoria could wait. Maybe should. Her husband isn't even in the ground yet. Her skin is still mottled purple and yellow in some places, hidden by stockings and blouse sleeves but all too visible when she sheds both. But god, she's spent so many years playing his game, and she wants to be rid of it. Wants to be rid of him.

The shoes go flying. The stockings, the clothes, the pins in her hair. She's vicious, wiping her makeup off. Her phone is in her hands before she can think better of it or stop herself and the message is quick but it says everything it must: I want to see you. I'm coming over. Astoria is a consummate liar now and always but she finds no joy in lying to Elliott. What she wants, more than anything, is to be with him right now.

She throws what she intends to wear to the funeral tomorrow morning in her bag, just in case. Pulls on the first clothes she finds that are comfortable enough not to aggravate injuries, doesn't bother with makeup, doesn't bother doing anything to her hair. (She doesn't want to perform. Doesn't want to lie. Doesn't want to do anything but be exactly what she is, exactly at this moment.) Within the hour, she's there—his doorman letting her in, walking her to the private elevator.

(He'd been there, at the wake. Paid his respects. Let her play the wounded widow for the press that arrived. It meant something—he does not subject himself to being seen readily, but he did for her. For her.)

When the elevator doors open she steps forward and into the living room, and there he is. Elliott Hawke is a mess. A ruin. He's going to get her into more trouble than she can manage, she knows, but fuck, she needs him, in a way she doesn't often need. In a way she's told herself she's not allowed to need.

"I handled it." Just like she said she would. They haven't had much time together since Ezio's death, but they have it now. It's got to count for something. "I handled it," she says again, and then she laughs, an edge of hysteria in it, and she drops her bag on the couch, strips off her jacket and leaves it there too, toes off her shoes. She takes a step closer to him, then hesitates, waiting, waiting. But she is not a patient woman, not now, not when she's been waiting over a year, not when this is the only thing she's wanted, not when she finally feels like herself again—

Performing had never been Elliott Hawke’s forte. That had always been Malcolm’s game—flashing a perfect smile, shaking hands with just the right amount of pressure, laughing like he meant it. Depending on the room, it either put people at ease or made their skin crawl. His father had tried to teach him those tricks, groomed him to slide into the role like it was tailor-made. But charm was a lesson Elliott never picked up. Never cared to. His jagged edges clashed with the razor-clean legacy Malcolm had left behind, and no one in New York’s elite circles ever truly considered him the golden heir.

Which is exactly why his appearance at the Senator’s wake caused a stir. The reclusive, temperamental CEO of the Hawke Foundation showing up in person? People didn’t know what to make of it. Truth was, he'd stood in front of the mirror that morning, retying the same damn necktie over and over again, half-convinced not to go. Not because he was grieving--he’d nearly cracked and killed the bastard himself a dozen times himself--but because the thought of playing the part made his skin crawl. The murmurs as he walked in, the pointed looks, the tension in the air—it all sat heavy on him, like a match ready to strike. The fire churned beneath his skin, clawing its way out. He was ready to explode.

And then he saw her.

And just like that, the rest of the room ceased to exist.

Honestly, it had been hard not to crack a smile watching her from across the room, eyes never straying far. The tears were a nice touch--quaint, if a bit messy. She was selling it well, the broken widow act. But he knew better. Astoria wasn’t mourning; she was liberated. Whatever grief clung to her like perfume was just that--ornamental. Elliott could see it in the way her shoulders sat, just a bit higher than before. Lighter. Freer.

By the time she arrived, he’d peeled off the worst of it—the suit jacket flung over a chair, his dress shirt somewhere between the kitchen and the liquor cabinet. All that remained was the undershirt clinging to his skin and the slacks he hadn’t bothered to change out of. From the look of her, she hadn’t spent much time considering her own appearance either. That was the thing about freedom, wasn’t it? It unshackled you from expectation. If only Elliott understood what that kind of freedom actually felt like.

He stands when she steps in, jaw tight. Her voice reaches him, but it feels miles away. Muffled. Distant. His mind's already somewhere else, spiraling through the mess of now, then, and whatever the hell comes next. Elliott Hawke doesn’t waste much time on the future—never had—but right now, it’s all he can think about.

Say something.

His eyes drop to her wrist, bruises blooming in blue and yellow, and the flame crackling beneath his skin flickers. His palm ais hot as it trails up her tricep, down her forearm, fingers wrapping gently around her wrist. “About goddamn time.” He murmurs, pulling her hand to his chest. “I never, ever want you putting yourself through that bullshit ever again. I don’t give a fuck if you have it handled.“ His gaze locks with hers, heat tingling just beneath the surface. Emotion swells through him, but it’s anger that he latches onto – even despite the softness in his grasp. Anger is all he knows, it’s what he’s comfortable with. “Someone ever hurts you like that again, I won’t hesitate to fucking kill them.”

⋆｡‧˚ʚ💋ɞ˚‧｡⋆ 𝐥𝐚𝐳𝐲 𝐝𝐚𝐲𝐬

​​​​​​actions.

[ CUDDLE ]: sender wraps their arms around receiver on the couch and refuses to let go.

[ OVERSIZED ]: sender is wearing receiver's oversized hoodie or shirt with nothing underneath.

[ MOVIE ]: sender and receiver watch a movie, tangled up in blankets.

[ LAP ]: sender lays their head in receiver’s lap while scrolling on their phone.

[ SNOOZE ]: sender drifts off mid-conversation with their face buried in receiver’s neck.

[ COFFEE ]: sender brings receiver their favorite drink while still in pajamas.

[ STAY ]: sender pulls receiver back into bed when they try to get up.

[ TANGLE ]: sender’s legs are tangled with receiver’s under a cozy blanket.

[ KISSY ]: sender peppers sleepy kisses across receiver’s cheeks and neck.

[ SHOWER ]: sender pulls receiver into a lazy, steamy shower just to hold them.

[ HAIR ]: sender plays with receiver’s hair absentmindedly.

[ LAPTOP ]: sender works on something while laying on top of receiver.

[ NAP ]: sender and receiver nap together, completely wrapped around each other.

[ BUMPS ]: sender bumps their nose against receiver's while giggling under the covers.

[ COOKING ]: sender tries to make breakfast but gets distracted by receiver’s kisses.

[ SOCKS ]: sender steals receiver’s socks just to keep their toes warm.

[ BRUSH ]: sender gently brushes receiver’s messy morning hair with their fingers.

[ WRAP ]: sender wraps themselves in a blanket and waddles over to cuddle receiver.

[ DANCE ]: sender pulls receiver into a slow, silly dance in the kitchen.

[ FLUFF ]: sender brings over a pillow and throws it at receiver to start a pillow war.

𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞.

❝ five more minutes. ❞

❝ you’re so warm, don’t move. ❞

❝ let’s stay in bed all day. ❞

❝ i made coffee. come get it before it gets cold. ❞

❝ you’re way too comfortable for me to get up. ❞

❝ we should order something and never leave the couch. ❞

❝ you have bedhead. it’s adorable. ❞

❝ come here, i need snuggles. ❞

❝ i missed mornings like this with you. ❞

❝ i don’t care what we watch as long as you’re here. ❞

❝ wanna nap on top of me again? ❞

❝ you smell like sleep and sunshine. ❞

❝ i stole your hoodie and i’m never giving it back. ❞

❝ your toes are freezing. ❞

❝ don’t fall asleep on me—too late. ❞

❝ i swear you’re the human version of a weighted blanket. ❞

❝ is it illegal to be this cozy? ❞

❝ i could do nothing with you forever. ❞

❝ you’re the best part of my lazy days. ❞

matt preferred to go to fogwell's after hours. he'd known the owners for years, since his dad used to come here. there was something sacred about this place, a tether to every life he's lived so far. he was fresh out of the office & needed to blow off some steam. sometimes, it was comforting to be able to drown out the constant heartbeat of the city. for his world to center of his fist against a punching bag.

except, tonight is a little different. he shows up a little later than usual, there was a car parked outside. there was a hum that told him the lights were already on. it wasn't going to deter him, though.

it's awkward at first. the silence, thick between them. matt sets down his bag & the gym's other inhabitant commits himself to the punching bag he was training at. matt takes his time wrapping his fists, tuning into the silence around them both. matt wasn't going anywhere, this was his home or something like it. but neither was the other. so here, there is an opportunity.

Not that coming to Fogwell's is some dirty little secret that would send the press. In fact, it's become quite the opposite; a safe haven from the eyes of the city, a place where he can blow off steam. Not as the CEO of Hawke Enterprises, not philanthropist nor the crime boss, not as Havoc.

Just Elliott.

His expression doesn’t shift, not even when recognition clicks into place — Murdock. Nelson & Murdock, right? A name whispered in the same breath as Fisk’s in the courtroom, a legal thorn in the Kingpin’s side. He remembers hearing about him from his people. The thought grounds him a little, enough that the fire coiled in his chest starts to settle, his fists cooling with it.

At the very least, the guy’s not a threat. Not tonight.

And the fact that the bastard’s blind? That just buys Elliott a little more anonymity.

Still, he definitely isn't an ally — which is probably why a flicker of surprise cuts through his features when the man actually speaks to him (before quickly remembering he can't see who he is). "Who's pretending?" Elliott shoots back, finally reeling in his punches. He grabs the damp towel he’d tossed aside earlier and slaps it across the back of his neck, trying to cool the heat still licking at his skin.

"I'll be honest; I wasn't expecting you to call."

She'd be lying if she said she wasn't pleased. It had even been worth her husband's questioning and suspicion; every inch of independence is. (She had, of course, acquiesced to the Senator's demands: meet in a public place, during the day rather than at evening, have her location on and accessible. Easier to do that than to argue day in, day out.)

Astoria sits back comfortably, a hand curled around the coffee cup, keeping it warm. It's the little things that keep her in the habit of using her power. Better to do that than let it atrophy, like a muscle she's afraid to exercise.

Grief is a monster. It consumes everything in its path. Somehow, it hasn't consumed the Hawke heir, and that's something, isn't it? She'd enjoyed working with Malcolm; she's sure she'll enjoy working with his son.

He prefers handling business behind closed doors—not because a meeting like this would raise suspicion, no, but because his life has turned into a goddamn sideshow ever since his father died. Every move is watched, dissected. People don’t just glance at him anymore, they look, like they'retrying to memorize every detail, every hair on his head before he passes them by. Sometimes, if he's lucky, it stops at recognition. Most times, it doesn’t.

A booth in the back of some forgettable little café will do for now. Even if the waitress pouring their coffee lingers longer than he likes -- but perhaps he is simply paranoid.

"Why is that?" Thick, dark brows pull together, the crease between them carved deeper these days--another souvenir from inheriting a kingdom he never wanted. Honestly, he had hesitated in reaching out to the Senator’s wife, almost writing her off like the rest of the vultures that had come crawling out after the funeral. Another opportunist, he’d figured. Just one more leech with a polished smile.

He'd been pleasantly surprised to learn otherwise.

And then there it was--that question. About his family, about how they had been holding up since the funeral. His jaw tightens, bitterness rising up like bile before he drowns it with a long sip of coffee. A fair question, sure, but it isn't something he likes to speak candidly about. Especially not as Bethany's health continues to deteriorate as the days go by, as Carver continues to distance himself from the family, as Leandra cries herself to sleep at night.