𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬𝐚𝐲: "𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐮𝐛𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞; 𝐫𝐮𝐦𝐨𝐫."
NEW YORK, 1967
It's 1967 and Margot Murdock's life is falling apart. I...
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CW: Body worship, soft dom James, oral sex, multiple orgasms, dirty talk, mentions of self harm and self harm scars.
MARGOT
NELSON & MURDOCK
June 2, 1967
"Matt?" I linger in the doorway of his office, staring at my manicure. My baby pink polish is chipping.
"What's shaking, Margot?"
I frown.
"Don't say that."
"Why not?"
"Because that's not cool."
"I think it's cool." He flashes me a warm smile, his signature red sunglasses set on his desk next to a stack of papers, his fingers just barely touching the braille.
After Matt went blind, he had big bouts of depression. As a kid, I remember watching my big brother struggle with having to learn to read braille. It took him a while to learn to train his fingers to identify the dots by touch. All in all, it took him about six months to learn it and now it's like he's been reading it all his life. I learned it, but my father never bothered.
But Matt said that the worst part about losing his vision was the people assuming he was totally incompetent. Even my dad would watch him pour a cup of coffee in the morning, waiting for him to spill it. He never did it. He couldn't stand the instantaneous loss of anonymity and felt like he stuck out like a sore thumb.
I sigh and walk toward him, sitting down in the chair across from his desk.
"How's your first day?" He asks.
He has no idea what I did in James Barnes's office.
"It's good. James is nice. Everyone's nice, actually."
"That's good. I told him how smart you are." I smile and Matt tilts his head. "You had a question for me? Or did you just come to bug me?"
"I actually had a question. Who's Brock Rumlow?"
Matt's expression sours instantly.
"Why?"
"Because he called here looking for James."
Matt runs a hand through his hair and leans back in his seat.
"He's this scum-sucking prosecutor who James can't stand— look, I'm not his secretary, but I'd advise just taking a message and not letting the two of them interact any more than they have to."
"He asked me out to dinner."
"And what did you say?"
"Told him to get lost— professionally, of course."
