Foggy Nelson does not deserve this. Foggy Nelson is a nice guy, he is chill, he is good with his hands, he is smart and has the expensive Columbia paperwork to prove it, he is a sex god (Marci said, well, strongly hinted so), he is best buds with one crazy lawyer slash blind vigilante. Foggy Nelson has enough going on in his life, thank you very much.
He does not want a zombie, twice dead, murderous psychopath sitting prim and proper on his sofa. Her red pumps clash with the brown fabric, too. He absolutely doesn’t squeak and immediately proceeds to glare at her.
“You,” he says.
“Hello, Franklin.” She smiles sweetly, but he knows better than to fall for it.
“How did you get in?”
She waves airily. “Oh, you know.” He notices the window is ajar. What the fuck. “Girlfriend out?”
“You know she is.” He wonders if Elektra waited for one day when Marci’s job would keep her away from home later than usual. Maybe gathering intel on their apartment, on their lives; maybe planting bugs; maybe waiting on a roof somewhere with a scope or something. And maybe he spends too much time around some people, too. He’s getting paranoid. Foggy pointedly doesn’t look at the nearby buildings.
“I want to talk to you, Franklin.” Why she insists on calling him Franklin, he doesn’t know and doesn't want to know.
“I don’t.” Also please don’t kill me, he thinks very hard.
“I’m not going to kill you,” she says. “Matthew would never forgive me.”
“He’s the forgiving sort, when it comes to you. Also, aren’t you supposed to be dead?”
“What, the Midland Circle thing?” Is it a smile, when you see how pointed her teeth are? She’s practically one of the undead by now, right? Maybe there’s some garlic in the kitchen. It’s worth a try, right? She keeps looking at him. “I’m not a vampire, Franklin.” Shit. “Relax, Franklin. Sit down.” She pats the couch.
“It’s my home.” He pointedly sits on the armchair to her left.
She rolls her eyes. “As you wish. When the building started to collapse I tried to get out with Matthew, but at one point we got knocked apart. I’m not sure he wanted to get out, really. I thought he’d died, and it…” For the first time since he found a (formerly?) brainwashed ninja lounging on his furniture, he’s feeling something other than fear and anger. The memories seem to overwhelm her for a moment, but she quickly covers it. “I remembered more every day. I hunted the rest of the Hand down, got control of my estate back, returned here, discovered Matthew was still alive.”
“And so you’re here.”
“I’ve been here for a while.”
“I meant – nevermind.” He is pretty sure she knows he meant in his own home, anyway. She’s laughing at him, he can see it in her eyes and twitching lips. “Wait. You’ve been in New York for, say, a month or so, right?”
“Yes.”
Oh, shit. Oh, shit. Matt has been a combination of on edge, elated, shifty, jumpy and surprisingly bruise-free (in the face, at least) for about a month. He hasn’t said a word. Foggy is going to strangle him, and super-senses or not he won’t see it coming. Hah.
“I asked him not to say anything yet,” she says. “He wanted to.”
Okay, he’s going to strangle her. But then holy fuck he notices there’s a knife sheath on her ankle, peeking out from under her tailored pants; so. Maybe not.
He hates that Matt loves her; she’s only ever been trouble and pain. And suicidal tendencies, as if he needed more of those. (Foggy tries to not think too much about those months after their break-up, back in college. God, what a – nope, not going there.)
He’s been better, since they mended their bridges. Once Fisk was behind bars again, and they restarted their firm, and his mom – shit, his mom. Only Matt Murdock’s life could be that insane. Maggie is terrifying and also, seriously, no wonder Matt is such a mess. It’s actually amazing he’s (somewhat) functional, really. He doesn't need Elektra bringing her shit back to him, and Foggy knows he won’t be able to say no.
But she’s patiently waiting for him to say something, and she doesn’t look like she’s about to murder him. Still. “I don’t want to pick up Matt pieces for months after you leave him again.”
“I’m not leaving.”
“So you say.”
She stands up so fast he can feel his heart rate spike. He’s sweating. He briefly considers jumping behind the armchair, but really if she wanted him dead he’d already be lying in a pool of blood. “I. Am not. Leaving.” She's terrifying, he knows what she’s capable of. But he’s also faced the fucking Punisher and been shot and blown up and damn, he won’t back down. He narrows his eyes.
“There’s a pattern.”
“There were reasons. I eliminated them.” Fucking reassuring.
“Why are you here?” That’s the question, really. A warning? She never paid him much attention. Why now?
“As I said, I wanted to talk to you.” She sits back down, crosses her legs. “First, to tell you I’m here to stay. Well, I’ll come and go, you know how it is.” No he doesn’t. He’s not a rich heiress who was trained as an assassin. “But now I know who I am, and I’m making my own choices. And,” she adds with a little grin, “we all know Matthew could use some back-up.”
“Back-up?”
“You’re his daytime back-up, I’m the night-time one.” Well, fine. If you put it like that. Yes, he is in Matt’s corner, and yes, Daredevil (or the Man in Black, or whoever he is now in the dark) could sure use a regular one. His vigilante buddies had been overjoyed (Danny), angry and hungover and angry (Jessica), outwardly disapproving of the secrecy yet relieved (Luke) when they learned he was alive after all, but Matt isn’t a very good team player. For Elektra, though… They’ve worked together before, and let’s face it: he has never gotten over her, and never will. Seems like she hasn’t, and won’t, get over him either. Maybe, Foggy thinks, that’s a good thing. But he’s really not sold yet, even if she promises not to leave again.
“You’re a murderer. You know that can’t fly with him, not for long.”
“I was.”
“What, you’re a nun now?” Shit, no, wrong word. He doesn’t need Oedipal phase Matt.
“Of course not. I don’t have Matthew’s qualms about killing, but I am not looking for it now.”
Foggy wonders how long that’ll last, but maybe she’s sincere. She looks sincere. Matt, of course, would be over the moon if he believes she is, his brain screaming Redemption and Forgiveness and going full-on Catholic joy, if that oxymoron is possible. Emphasis on moron, Matt. “Don’t break his heart. Don’t break his heart again, or I swear, I may not have been trained by a blind old ninja but I will destroy you.”
She actually relaxes further into the couch, throwing an arm over the back and showing her throat. “You can try,” she says. “I might let you.” She wriggles a little bit. “Where did you get this sofa?”
He blinks at her non-sequitur. “What?”
“It’s comfortable. Matthew’s is…” She makes a moue.
“Old?”
“Sagging.”
“Well, he does spend a lot of time on it. Sleeping, sulking, bleeding, you know. The usual.”
“Does he.”
“Oh, yes. I’ve seen him choose it over his bed while barely held together by stitches.”
“That would explain what I’ve found between the cushions.”
“Oh, what – no, I don’t want to know. Don’t tell me. No.” He… has a pretty good idea.
Elektra grins, and it looks strangely unthreatening and almost sweet. Impish. “I’m sure you can guess.”
“Yes, please, no, let’s not mention it ever again. I’m just not ever sitting on that couch, ever again. He can sleep there in his underwear or burrito-ed to death, I don’t care. Ew.”
“Burrito-ed? I usually see him… un-burrito-ed.”
“What, he’s never graced you with the Sulk Look of Woe?” She shakes her head, eyes wide. “He spent about two months like that in college after you – after you, you know. Oversized hoodie, large sweatpants, thickest woolen socks you’ve ever seen in your life. At Peak Woe, there’s also a blanket.”
She seems fascinated. “I must learn more about that.”
Fuck, now he’s having a stitch and bitch moment with her. He can’t forget who she is, he can’t forget –
“I’m sure someone has pictures, let me text Claire.”
“Marci?” Foggy isn’t sure whether to get up and kiss her or get up and get her away from here.
“Hey,” she says and pecks his lips. “You all right?” He nods mutely and tries to convey there’s a maybe former assassin on their couch with his eyebrows, but she ignores him and extends a hand to Elektra. “Hello, I’m Marci. I must say, I like the shoes. They scream murder, where did you get them?”
Foggy chokes a little, Elektra preens, and when she leaves an hour later his fiancée has made plans to go shoe shopping with a hopefully ex mystical murderer next weekend.
Foggy Nelson doesn’t deserve this (and it’s all Matt’s fault).