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No one ever accused Marci Stahl of being timid, few even would go so far as to call her polite. Even so, it takes more guts than she’d like to admit to have it out with Matt.
”Hey,” she says, and grabs him by the arm like an idiot who doesn’t know the first thing about Mathew Murdock. He whirls on her, and for a second she’s absolutely certain he’s about to slug her. She almost wants him to, just so she has an excuse to hit him back. She’s not the sort of person to brawl in a courthouse, and it’d be damn embarrassing to publicly lose a fight to a blind man who looks as though he’s never so much as raised his voice in anger before, but it’d be worth it for the satisfaction of hurting him, even a little, even just once.
But then he breathes long and slow and forces himself to go still, and Marci wonders how no one ever realizes how dangerous he is.
”Marci,” he says, “What do you need?”
What she needs has nothing to do with him, but suddenly she has no idea what to say, or rather she has several ideas, but none that are willing to actually come out of her mouth.
”You didn’t invite me to the funeral,” she says in the end. It’s a demand rather than a question.
”I didn’t realize it was customary to invite the ex,” he says, because Matt Murdock is a genuinely horrible person, and somehow, Marci’s the only one who’s noticed. She nearly throws the first punch after all, and to hell with what anyone thinks, or the assault charge he’s sure to land her with. But she knows what he’s doing. He wants her to yell at him and go away. Or, knowing him, (and she does, unfortunately) he just wants someone to yell at him (or hit him) for the sake of it. But just this once Maci won’t, can’t do that.
”You know we didn’t work that way,” she says, because he did, and he knew she knew it.
Matt deflates. It reminds her somehow of a wolf baring its throat.
”I forgot,” he says, “I’m sorry.”
It’s as shocking as it’s obvious. He would have deferred to Foggy’s parents, mostly, for the guest list. They would have thought first of family and childhood friends, he of the people he knew through N&M&P. She just… fell through the cracks.
”You forgot me?” She says, because she still has every right to be upset about it.
She can see him about to make a smart remark at that, and she can see him decide not to.
”I’m sorry,” he says, helpless.
He looks washed out, worn thin. Through the wringer can be a very literal expression sometimes. She doesn’t want to feel sorry for him, and she doesn’t. But suddenly, in the face of his exhaustion, she’s too exhausted to feel angry anymore. Problem is, in the wake of the anger, there’s only grief.
”I don’t even know where he’s buried,” she says.
”I’m sorry,” he says again, like if he just keep repeating it, one of these times it will mean something that matters. “I can show you where it is,” he offers.
She blinks at him, feeling off balance.
”What, you mean right now?”
”Sure, if you want.” And the words are casual, but the tone and expression aren’t at all.
She feels like it shouldn’t be like this. She should buy flowers, wear a black dress maybe. She shouldn’t visit Foggy’s grave for the first time like it’s a last minute shopping trip. But she can’t wait for the flowers, for the gravitas. She needs to go now.
”Let's go,” she tells him.
”Okay,” he says.