c: Marci (past!Marci/Foggy)
ch/pr: towerparty - 'Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow.
s: Foggy’s business card is on pretty cheap stock.
n: [Title from Matches To Paper Dolls by Dessa] The challenge for this towerparty lightning round was minor characters, and while we know most minor characters are my faves, I picked Marci because I ADORE HER, I want to write like a billion more words about her, what a queeeeeeen.
Foggy’s business card is on pretty cheap stock; Marci debates wetting her thumb with a martini, smudging it across the words to watch the ink blur. Not like hers, which is thick and confident, just a little embossed so you can feel it when you run your fingers over it, a business card which means business, Landman & Zack’s name almost as big as hers.
The Nelson & Murdock business card is flimsy in comparison, but Foggy got the font he’s always wanted, the one he’s been mulling over since law school, asking her opinion no matter how many times she told him she didn’t care. It was one of the few things he couldn’t take to Matt, of course; fonts and shirt colours and tie patterns.
There was a time when he’d have been hers for the moulding, and Marci’s a touch bitter when she thinks about it, still; partly because she had that opportunity and did nothing with it, partly because she hates herself a little for wanting it in the first place. Foggy’s Foggy; his own kind of shark, the kind who looks too weak to play the games, sheathing his knives in silk so you don’t even know you’ve been cut until it’s a couple of days later and you’re bleeding out on your kitchen floor.
Or something; Marci sips her martini and decides this one should be her last.
Anyway, here it is: the kid made it, though the address is godawful and his business cards fold like origami paper and he’ll be starved and struggling for years and years.
And he won’t regret it, and that makes her sink her teeth into her own mouth for the longest of moments.
Marci leaves a lipstick smear on a cocktail napkin, tucks it into the emptied glass, the drink that cost more than she thinks Foggy makes at work in a week these days, and considers the business card again. Foggy didn’t even give it to her; she had to resort to a little subterfuge to get one, and now she has it she doesn’t know what to do with it. She should fold it, dump it in the glass to suck up the remains of the vodka and pulp with it, she should leave it on the bar, she should accept that now she knows and move forward. It’s not like they don’t have each other’s numbers; it’s not like she didn’t know that this was happening.
If she was playing the femme fatale like she loves to do, she’d tuck it into a stocking or a bra strap and smirk, batting lashes and revealed teeth, but there’s no one to do that for, a performance of one, and she’s the worst of audiences even on her good days.
In the end, Marci sighs and chucks down a tip on the bar and shoves the card into her purse; the movement careless, but it doesn’t get bent, doesn’t crumple either.
She leaves it in there, and it burns for days.