Damned If I Do *Matt Murdock* (book one of Damned)

4) (When food is gone...) You are my daily meal

Which was how Vera found herself standing in front of the gym, gathering thoughts and courage to come in and offered him her help with keeping the gym presentable in exchange of letting her train in there after hours. It was kind of a genius plan (Nina came up with it, obviously).

And it worked.

Mr.Fogwell was somewhat deaf (which made Vera doubt he knew what he had agreed to and she had to wonder how exactly he did deal with people), but vivacious man, who was pleased by her offer and didn't mind her punching the bag once or twice. He gave her the spare key (she immediately added it on her own key ring in order not to lose it) and the list of opening hours. They settled on her coming in every two or three days. He wouldn't pay her anything, since she could come over any day (after hours) and he would provide detergents and disinfection (or paid her for them when she brought him the bill).

She loved the arrangement and agreed to start the very night. He also warn her she might run into Mr. Murdock, the boxer's son (he wildly gestured to one of the ancient posters on the wall: Creel vs. Murdock), the lawyer with capital L, who had taken down the son of a bitch Fisk. He had a spare key too and sometimes visited. Vera didn't ask why – it was none of her business. After all, she would be coming after hours too.

Vera returned home for her backpack, sportswear, towel and hand wraps – there were things she hadn't packed to US, but her bandages would not stay left behind. She decided to go shopping before walking to the gym – it was the same direction, but she knew the supermarket would be probably closed by the time she left Fogwell's. It wasn't convenient for the food, but she would get past that. It was a better option than go shopping in the morning before her afternoon shift in MDDC and then do some magic cooking in a rush. Besides, she was out of her favourite flapjacks (which she planned to eat instead of dinner before exercising) and had no plastic bottles at home, so she didn't have a choice.

With her backpack full of food and drinks, she entered the gym and once again was hit by the odour of sweat, leather, iron and... something. She couldn't quite figure it out, but there was something else. She explored the main room, the locker room, the toilet (with no showers, gross) and the room that could only be named as the room in the back – she found the cleaning supplies and tools there, the first aid kit and to her pleasant surprise, she also found a fridge with a freezer – it was filled with cooling packs and icepacks. It seemed thoughtful of Mr. Fogwell; she didn't know if he charged people extra money for using them, but she was sure they appreciated it either way.

The cleaning process took her over two hours and she was glad she started with it. If she started with boxing, she wouldn't be able to stand up once she would kneel down to scrub some of the stains on the floor (she didn't expect it would always take her so long to clean up – it was painfully visible no one had thoroughly tidied up here for a while). And her muscles were definitely warmed up thanks to that kind of workout. With satisfaction, she stripped out her rubber gloves and wrapped her hands for boxing instead. She put on some music and placed couple of punches and kicks along with the rhythm of the song. God, she missed this. She didn't fight the smile that found the way on her lips.

Vera didn't managed the whole hour of (fit)boxing, but she never had to - usually there was some warm up, workout and stretching involved in the lesson – today, she had two hours of warming up and weightlifting, so she took her time with stretching her tired muscles instead. It was past eleven when she finally turned off the lights, locked the gym up and shoved the keys in her pocket.

Her whole body was fighting exhaustion, but the good kind. The autumn night air was cold against her flushed cheeks. It felt nice, yet she couldn't deny the fact she wouldn't mind her fifteen-minutes' walk home (home, with a shower) being shorter. She would take a short-cut, but she knew better. Every single shady thing always happened in a dark alley. Or an abandoned warehouse.