Chapter Text
He didn’t notice the buzzing at first, which wasn’t that unusual. Matt was used to tuning out a large percentage of the noise that washed over him every day, letting it create a background white noise, almost soothing in its presence. The buzzing of a cell phone on vibrate was one of those sounds, too commonplace to draw his attention, especially when he was trying to sleep.
The couple in the building across the street were arguing about money again; there was a man digging through the dumpsters outside; pigeons on the windowsills and roof hooting and flapping and scrabbling their claws into concrete. The ambient noise of traffic, ever present; a helicopter in the distance and the subway rumbling up through the ground, even half the city away, made its way to him, faint sound and vibration in the air. Sirens, too: and these, Matt had a difficult time ignoring. It was going on two in the morning, and he was in bed, instead of out in his city, looking for answers- court in the morning, so he couldn’t chance it.
He dozed for a short time before the buzzing started up again, drawing him back. He focused on it for the first time, and realized the sound was coming from inside the apartment. He sat up, tilted his head, and focused. It wasn’t his burner- that was safely turned off and stowed in his chest, along with his escrima sticks and mask. He swung his feet over the edge of the bed, socks touching the cold wooden floor, and made his way to the living room.
The buzzing was coming from a table in the corner of the room. He pulled the drawer open and fished out the phone- a flip phone, nondescript, a burner just like his own, but not his. It smelled distinctly wrong. He opened it, and then remembered, suddenly, that it was the phone he had taken from Detective Blake. He hadn’t plugged it in to charge, so the fact that it was even still active was a minor miracle, four days after the fact. Why he hadn’t thrown it away, he couldn’t quite remember.
The phone buzzed again in his hands and he frowned at it. It was impossible to tell who was calling. He ran his fingers over the buttons, mapping them out; it was the same model as his own burner, so he knew the general setup, but it lacked the accessibility options of his personal smartphone. Answering the call wouldn’t be smart. There was no telling who was calling.
Matt turned the phone around in his hands, frowning, then pressed the talk button.
He heard the speakers turn on, a static white noise, and picked up the sound of breaths issuing from a heavy chest, deep and slow. A faint heart beat, tinny to his ears, and steady. Then, “Am I speaking to the Man in the Mask?”
Matt dropped the phone.
It clattered to the floor, but he could still hear Fisk clearly as he rumbled, “Are you going to answer me? Are you afraid?”
Matt shook his head, his heart pounding (thankful, not for the first time, that nobody could hear it), and picked the phone up, carefully. He held it to his ear and the sounds from the other end sharpened considerably: the heartbeat, the breathing, and a faint whisper of air being moved through a central heating system. A radio played softly in the background, classical music, and he heard the shifting of fabric as Fisk moved, steadily, as if he were pacing.
“I can hear you breathing,” Fisk said, softly.
“What do you want?” Matt asked, at length, attempting to keep his tone neutral and failing. Fisk exhaled, and Matt heard him sit down on something soft, cushions being compressed under his weight.
From the sound of it, Fisk was a big man- but that was all he had to go on so far. His mental picture of Fisk was sparse- a large, lumbering, deep-voiced and vaguely threatening shape in his mind, as yet uncoloured by the sensory data he applied to everything in his world. In contrast, Foggy was a bright, clear figure comprised of the sound of hair whisking on shoulders, the smell of cheap coconut shampoo and strong, sugary coffee, garlic snacks and thrift-store suits.
“I thought we should speak again,” Fisk said. "Clear the air, as it were-“
"You didn’t expect me to survive,” Matt growled, cutting him off. "So now you have to threaten me some more. Let me save you the trouble- I’m not going to stop coming after you. You’re wasting your breath.“ He managed to cut himself off before he could say more, biting his tongue and trying to tamp down the rage that had suddenly taken hold of him, constricting his chest; he thought suddenly, inexplicably, of Vladimir- alone at the end, singing softly to himself as he waited to die.
"If you would let me speak,” Fisk replied, after a moment.
Matt huffed in annoyance. “Fine. What do you want?”
“You attempted to assault Leland Owlsley yesterday afternoon. I would advise against doing so again. He has been given an escort to keep him safe, and I feel you should consider- appearances- if you were to assault an elderly man.”
“Owlsley knew what he was getting into when he decided to work with you,” Matt growled. At some point, he’d begun to pace, too distracted to keep his mind on where he was going; he banged his knee into the couch and let out a hiss, more in surprise than pain. On the other end, Fisk went quiet, as if he were listening.
“You’re too easily worked up,” Fisk observed. "I noticed as much during the last- conversation- we had.“
Matt gritted his teeth, biting down his first response, then said, "You mean the conversation where you had me framed and asked me to consider murder? Wow, no wonder I got worked up.” He tried to keep himself steady by gripping the back of the couch with his free hand; the hand holding the phone wanted to clench, too, and he could hear the plastic creaking in protest. "Do you even listen to yourself?“
"You really have no idea what you’re getting in to,” Fisk mused, completely ignoring him, and Matt heard the rustling of fabric as Fisk leaned back in his chair, letting out a put-upon sigh. He sounded like he was preparing to give a lecture- Matt was no stranger to those, thank the various priests and nuns of his orphanage upbringing (not to mention Stick). Being lectured by his worst enemy wasn’t exactly a prospect he was looking forward to at this point.
“Don’t,” Matt said, pinch the bridge of his nose with his free hand as he leaned back against the couch, feeling drained. "Say what you called to say or I’m hanging up.“ He’d probably be hanging up soon, anyway- he had a feeling the phone’s battery was about to give out. He needed to go back to bed, but that certainly wasn’t going to happen now, not the way his heart was pumping, like he was ready for a fight.
"Very well,” Fisk replied, his voice taking on a slightly deeper pitch. "Consider this your last warning. If you continue to involve yourself in my- business- I will do everything I can to find you. So far, I’ve been hoping that you will give up on your own, so I won’t have to- deal with you myself.“ He paused, as though considering his next words. "I want you to understand that this doesn’t end well for you.”
“There’s nothing you can say to make me stop coming after you,” Matt hissed, trying to keep his voice down as much as possible. It was hard, though- Fisk was more infuriating than he remembered, even with the awkward, halting way he spoke. The fact that his heartbeat hadn’t changed made it worse, though; nothing he had said was a lie. Fisk told the truth, like promising to find Matt and kill him was all in a day’s work. For a man like him- it was probably true. "I’m gonna make sure this city knows all about you. You deserve to be on trial for everything you’ve done- all the people you’ve hurt-“
"On trial?” Fisk asked, sounding genuinely confused, for once. "Hmm.“
"What?"
"I suppose I'm more used to death threats," was Fisk's reply.
"I don't kill," Matt said, with feeling. "Not like you."
"And yet you put a man in a coma."
Matt clenched his teeth. "He was still alive."
"Technicalities," Fisk said. "You act like you hold yourself to a higher standard. You don't want to be like me, and yet you purposely set out to hurt people. Do you enjoy it? Is that why you're doing this?"
"Fuck you," Matt hissed, unable to stop himself. "I'm going to tear down everything you've built for yourself, I'm going to show Hell's Kitchen who you really are, and you're going to pay for all the lives you've ruined."
Fisk was silent for a moment, as though he were processing Matt's words.
"I see. You do enjoy beating on people, don't you? But you want to tell yourself you don't." Matt opened his mouth to argue but nothing came out. "This is your only outlet, isn't it? Get out your anger- only on people who you think deserve it- and that makes you a good person. You're only trying to help, after all."
Matt wanted to hang up, but his hand was clutching the phone a little too tightly; he couldn't move. Fisk- he was only trying to make him mad, spouting nonsense- but he had no response.
"It's okay," Fisk continued, encouraged by Matt's silence. "There are worse motivations, I suppose. You're trying to do some good- I see that. But you're interfering with my business, with what I'm trying to do for this city. We don't have to be enemies- we both want the same thing."
"No," Matt choked. "You're- you-"
"Young man. Don't argue with me, please. You know I'm right."
Matt's breath hitched as the words washed over him, and strangely- embarrassingly- they went straight to his dick. Young man- Jesus. How fucked up was he? Did he really want to know the answer?
Fisk seemed to notice something was wrong. "Are you still there?" he said, and went quiet as he listened. Matt held his breath, willing himself to ignore the way his cock was starting to stir. It was stupid, and ridiculous, and he wanted to scream.
"Hmm," Fisk said, after a moment. Then, his voice dropped a few octaves, and he murmured, "Your breathing changed. Did you like that? Do you like when I call you 'young man'? Or do you just like being talked down to?"
Matt swallowed. "You're sick," he said, but he still hasn't hung up.
"And you sound like you're enjoying my voice a little too much." He heard Fisk leaning back, his chair creaking softly under his weight, and Fisk took in a deep breath, exhaling a moment later. Calming himself. "I saw a video of you, fighting the Russians beneath Troika restaurant. You looked exhausted, but it was beautiful. You were beautiful." He paused. "I want you to do something for me."
"...what?"
"Are you wearing boxers? Jeans? I want you to touch yourself."
Matt's heart skipped a beat, his free hand clenching into a fist. "Fuck you," he tried to growl, but it came out a whisper.
"What are you wearing? Answer me."
Matt tried not to answer. He tried to hang up the phone. He tried to step away from the couch. None of it happened- his knees felt weak, and his cock was definitely at attention now, and inside his head he saw Fisk seated serenely on his chair, completely unaffected, watching him imperiously with the air of a man who's used to being obeyed.
"B-boxers," he stammered in disbelief, and his free hand strayed to his crotch. He rested his palm over the bulge of his dick, standing at half-mast, and it twitched at the contact.
"Are you touching yourself?" Fisk asked. Matt grunted an affirmative, too afraid to say more- if he didn't put a voice to it, then it couldn't possibly be happening. "Good. Give your cock a squeeze- tease it a little. Are you hard?"
Matt exhaled shakily, but did as he was told. He could almost feel the blood rushing down, his cock thickening beneath his palm, and he dearly wanted to push his boxers down. He imagined how nice the cool air would feel on his skin, cold where precum had leaked. "Yes," he replied, at length.
"Very good." Fisk was sounding a little breathless now, and despite himself Matt was glad that he was being affected, too. At least he wasn't alone, as completely and utterly wrong as the situation was. "Close your eyes."
Matt couldn't help it; he snorted, a little too loudly. "Okay," he said, glibly.
"Is something funny?" Fisk asked, sharply.
"N-no," Matt stammered, his heart skipping a beat. He was hyped up, taut as a guitar string, and for some reason he felt like Fisk was staring right at him, like he knew. It was stupid. This whole situation was stupid.
So why hadn't he hung up yet?
"Good," Fisk grunted. He wondered if Fisk was touching himself yet- by the way he was breathing, probably. Not for the first time, Matt wished he knew what Fisk looked like- just, for different reasons, now. He knew Fisk was big, tall and heavy if his voice was any indication, the deep way he breathed. His heart seemed to labor at times, and he was clearly older than Matt by at least a decade, probably more. "When I find you- and I will," Fisk said, frighteningly sincere, "I will- impress upon you- the importance of showing respect. You are too impulsive, too reckless. I think you've been wanting this, haven't you."
He paused, then let out a low rumbling sound, thoughtful, from the back of his throat. Matt swallowed, his hand finally slipping beneath the silk of his boxers. His hand was dry, too dry, the callouses of his palm making him flinch. "Wanting what?" he asked, and his voice came out hushed, a little strained.
"Someone to tell you what to do," Fisk answered. "You need it, don't you? Someone to keep you in check. Someone to answer to."
"And you think- that's you?" Matt growled.
"Yes," came the reply, smug; Matt's fist tried to clench, and he squeezed his cock a little too hard, but it was good, Jesus- he whined, unable to stop himself, and Fisk laughed, softly. "Don't hurt yourself, boy. Shh," he said, as Matt opened his mouth to protest, panting, "Hush. Tell me what you like. What do you want?"
This call to end, Matt's brain supplied, but he couldn't find the will to say it out loud. He imagined Fisk's hands, probably twice as large as his, pulling down the waistband of his boxers, slick palm engulfing his, taking his cock in a vice grip, locking him in place- what would it be like, to be pinned by someone so large, to be unable to fight back? Fisk would kill him, no matter what he was saying now- he knew that, he really did, but- but what if?
"I- I want-" he started, but he couldn't finish. His face was hot, and there was no way Fisk wasn't laughing at him. He let out an angry noise and exhaled shakily.
"Yes?" Fisk said. "Tell me."
"I like- pain," Matt managed, finally, and it sounded utterly alien to his ears, this cowed voice coming out of his mouth. But it felt good to finally admit it- he'd never said it before, not to any of his girlfriends, though Elektra had probably had an idea.
Fisk didn't laugh at him, and Matt wasn't sure how to feel about that. "Yes, you do," he said, thoughtfully. "Hmm. You'd like to be thrown around a little bit, wouldn't you? You don't look like you weigh much. It wouldn't be difficult. I could pick you up, pin you to the wall by your neck while I fucked you. You would beg me to make it hurt, wouldn't you?"
Matt gasped, fisting his cock furiously, squeezing out beads of precum that wetted his palm, took away that slight edge of discomfort- he was already perilously close, and Fisk seemed to realize it.
"Calm down," Fisk said, sharply. Matt belatedly realized he was panting. "I didn't say you could come yet."
Matt froze, still breathing heavily, and then exhaled shakily, hating himself for actually doing as Fisk said. But it was a little too late for regrets at this point, with his hand down his pants and his cock hard and aching just from listening to that asshole's voice.
Fisk took his silence as compliance. "That's it," he said. "Good boy."
Matt swallowed hard as his dick twitched in interest at that- Jesus, he was really fucked up. He could hear Fisk jerking off even through the phone, the rhythmic slide of fabric and wet skin, the other man's heavy breaths. Matt couldn't hold back the frustrated whine that escaped his throat and Fisk's pulse jumped.
"Do you want to come?" Fisk asked, breathlessly, and Matt couldn't stop himself from answering, a half-choked out "please" that would have horrified him, if he'd been more in control. A part of him knew he was definitely going to regret this- probably two seconds after making a mess in his boxers- but right now, he didn't care.
"When I find you," Fisk started, his voice taking a harsh, guttural quality, "When I find you, I will make you beg for this." Matt's entire world had somehow come to center on the sounds coming through over the phone, on the slick slide of Fisk's palm on his cock as he worked himself- Matt's own hand resuming, smooth, fluid strokes, keeping time.
Finally, Fisk took a breath and exhaled in a gust, released a stuttering moan, and then-
Silence.
Matt froze. He tilted his head, listening hard, but nothing was coming through the phone: no static, no heartbeat, no breathing. "Fisk?" He swallowed and grabbed the phone in his free hand from where he had wedged it between his shoulder and ear. He pressed a button, but there was no dial tone. The phone had finally died.
"Fuck!" he growled, hurling it away toward the wall. It hit with a clatter, a piece cracking off as it crashed to the floor. Matt panted in anger and frustration; he was already losing his hard-on, and he'd been so close- so fucking close-
He leaned back against the couch and covered his face with his hands, inhaling the musky, familiar scent of his own arousal. He didn't want to think. The last thing he wanted to do right now was to think about how he'd let Wilson-Fucking-Fisk run right over him like that, to take control of the conversation and- and- pervert it.
He trudged to the bathroom and washed his hands, feeling suddenly tired. The usual sounds of the city at night were filtering back in as his heart rate slowed to normal, the pounding in his ears lessening. He collapsed back into his bed and pulled the comforter over his head, then reached out to touch the clock as an afterthought. Four thirty-two AM.
He thought about going back to pick up the phone, to plug it in to charge. It was probably broken. He wondered if he would have time to go to confession in the morning, and then thought better of that. He wasn't quite sure he could talk to Father Lantom about this particular fucked-up facet of himself. The devil inside him was one thing, easy to talk about in abstract, even if Lantom didn't quite understand it yet. It was the things the devil made him do- those, he wasn't sure he'd ever be ready to confess.