Stick had to be near. Matt knew the old man and his ego too much to think he would pass up an opportunity to watch his plan come to fruition or give it a slight nudge in the right direction. He also knew that Stick was a murderous liar, and therefore by definition a coward. The choice to leave Foggy hadn’t been easy, three times he had stopped, feet nearly turning back to the room of their own accord. Three times he had forced himself to take a breath and consider what he stood to lose if he did not deal with Stick in a way his mentor would understand.
But Foggy’s heartbeat was erratic and his breathing ragged, even with all the walls separating them and the bustle of the hospital all around Matt swore he could hear the creak of bone and shifting tendon as Foggy tried anything to get comfortable again.
The thought of losing Foggy completely was worse, the idea of visiting not one but two graves and the people he cared most about in the world no longer being in it. Stick would expect this, he had not been the master for nothing, but Matt had to draw him out into the open. He had to be dealt with swiftly and decisively, in such a way that Foggy could feel safe again in his own city.
He never would, not completely. Not after Fisk or Mrs. Cardenas, Urich or any of the dozens that had died to make Hell’s Kitchen what it was today. This one fear at least he could eliminate: Stick would never harm Foggy again, not after tonight.
Matt pushed onward, gripping his cane tighter with each passing second until his fingers ached with it. He settled in the cafeteria, a maelstrom of noise and scents that nearly overwhelmed him, but he could hear Foggy’s heartbeat still, the steady clicks and beeps of the machine that told him all was still well. Foggy would live, a little battered, a little bruised, but very much alive. Stick- Matt would try. For Foggy’s sake and his own he would try, even with a violence crawling beneath his skin that he hadn’t felt since that panicked call from Claire as she was dragged from her home.
The Russians had lived then. He had felt her eyes on him and known that for all she was angry and hurt, she did not want them dead. Foggy was different, a shower and a handful of sutures would not fix him; the nightmares probably wouldn’t fade for months if then, and dammit but Stick was right- Foggy was soft in a way neither he nor Claire had ever been. If Stick had taken that from him, Matt was going to hurt him until his hands ached for days and his every step was a constant reminder that he could be pushed too far.
Absorbed in thoughts of Foggy, fretting over results he had yet to hear, running through calming exercises to keep from actually leaving hospital grounds to hunt Stick down, somehow he missed the falsely limping tread Stick affected when he wanted to be mistaken for less than he was. He missed the way nurse’s and doctor’s footsteps faltered when they moved to make room for the old man’s motionless cane held out defensively before him. He missed the pull of the curtain and the metallic shriek as it moved. In fact, the one thing he could not fail to hear, the one thing that would haunt his nightmares until the day he finally hung up his suit, was Foggy’s muffled scream, the way his heartbeat flew even as his breathing stopped, his choked attempt at a last breath-
Matt flew past the guest at the door, not hearing his cut-off expletive, barely remembering to keep his cane clamped to his side in his haste. He pretended not to here the surprised gasps of staff and patients alike as he bolted past, ignored shouted requests to walk slowly in the hallway, and deftly changed direction at the familiar tap of security’s standard issue boots.
The curtain’s fabric split from the divider with a dull tearing sound, Matt could not be bothered to care. He could feel Stick standing there, fairly radiating malice as one cruel hand pushed into Foggy’s ribs until a minor crack became a fracture. He could hear the final gasp just before Foggy surrendered to the pain of it, hear the muffled grunt of satisfaction Stick gave at seeing his work accomplished. Matt’s gut churned with fury, his cane connecting with Stick’s own before he was even aware it had changed hands.
“Back the hell away from him.” It was the Devil’s words on his lips now, stress and anger making his tone gravelly and low. He was grateful Foggy would not hear him; he had been through too much to add this to the list. As soon as they were home Matt would bundle him into bed and damn well keep him there until he no longer radiated such primal fear and agony.
“I thought I heard your step when I came in. I didn’t think I was going to get a moment alone with him.”
Matt bit down on his cheek, using the sharp taste of iron to ground himself. “This is the last time. I’m telling you this now: I will kill you before you hurt him again.”
He could hear Stick tilting his head, no heavy breathing or heightened pulse to indicate he had heard Matt’s threat. When he spoke it was with an overtone of disappointment that had Matt’s hackles rising with the need to attack.
“No, you still don’t have it in you. This is what I get for taking the guilty catholic boy. You never grew out of it.”
That should have been the end of it, Matt prayed that would be the end of it. This was a hospital, a place of rest, and he did not want to bring their feud here, but when Stick turned toward Foggy again what fragile grip he had on his banked fury slipped for the briefest second.
The next moment Stick’s throat was beneath his hand, bobbing with the effort of swallowing, the nails of one hand were digging into Matt’s skin through his suit and the other was pounding into his ribs, bruising- cracking, he hoped. It was what he deserved, it was what he had allowed to happen to Foggy. The chirp of radios drifted to him in the background, the scurry of anxious feet as staff jumped aside for security. Matt did not stop when he felt their hands on him, fixated only on the demon in his arms.
He barely noticed when Stick’s fist slammed into his jaw, and again into his diaphragm. He was already ill, already so consumed with a fierce desire to hurt he couldn’t breathe. He felt it when his knuckles connected with Stick’s shoulder, pushing it from its socket with ease, he felt it when his left hook caught Stick in the kidney and when his elbow caught the man restraining him in the chin. The way Stick’s ribs yielded beneath his hands was a revelation: if he hit a little farther to the left he could shatter the sternum, stop the heart, send Stick to hell where he would threaten no one ever again.
Matt sucked his lip into his mouth, prepared to deliver a blow that would make the choice for him. He tasted blood and sweat, felt the scrape of whiskers just beneath his skin, the steady throbbing everywhere that Stick’s fists had landed and the weak flutter of his muscles as Stick writhed to break his hold, catching his wrist in a way that would fracture it if he didn’t let go, perhaps even if he did. All pain he deserved.
Then the steady beep and whir of the monitor pierced the haze of his bloodlust, the labored sound of Foggy still struggling to breathe past the pain even in his state. Foggy would forgive him in time. Foggy would comfort him, tell him it had been a case of momentary insanity. He would bankrupt them finding a defense attorney, one that would not need to claim conflict of interest, and when at last the cards fell however they did, he would stay, using all the skills and eloquence at his disposal to make Matt lay aside his guilt for a few precious hours every day.
He would never forgive himself, though. In his mind, it would always be his fault regardless of whether he was conscious for the final blow or not. Foggy would hate what the man had done, to Matt, to himself, to all the others that hadn’t been saved, but it would never occur to him to commit murder over it.
Foggy was still the man that had lied for months about being a vegetarian to avoid eating Matt’s lamb because he had petted one once as a child. He had paced a thin spot into the rug outside his office the night after chasing down Karen’s attackers with a baseball bat, wiping his hands against his suit as though he still felt the impact. He had been staunchly in favor of trusting that Fisk would be locked away, that there was no need to work outside the system he had dedicated the better part of his academic career to studying. He had been looking for an excuse to leave with Matt, follow him into hell on the off chance that they could make a difference. As attorneys, not vigilantes.
Matt’s fist dropped, shoulders bowing beneath the weight of what he was about to do.
Stick would go free, and Matt would spend every night hereafter praying he didn’t pay too steep a price for his mercy.
It was too much though, asking him to extend a hand in forgiveness to his enemy. He stepped away, adding another notch to a steadily growing tally he would confess when Foggy was well enough to do without him. Could a man confess and ask forgiveness when he could not bring himself to repent? And if a man that thought in his heart had as good as committed should he now make amends for murder?
The courts would not agree, Foggy would not agree, but even allowing Stick to gain his feet took all the willpower Matt could muster. Hearing him brush himself down, evade the well-meant assistance of gathered security, waving off their concerns in a manner that left them in no doubt who would have been the victim had their fight continued.
Matt had his own opinions on that score, but he held his silence as Stick was escorted out, no further words spoken between them. It went without saying that Stick would return, in months or years it hardly mattered, because Matt knew he was canny enough to have felt the intention in Matt’s hands. Hurting Foggy Nelson again meant death, approaching him was at best a risky proposition. Stick would not take a risk without the guarantee of reward, and as far as Matt was concerned his duty toward his mentor was long since satisfied.
He could feel the trepidation and the heavy stares as security limped from the room, a few of them nursing bruises they hadn’t had at the beginning of shift. He wasn’t sure if they intended to file a police report, and after the day he had had did not give a single damn. Yet shame made him incline his head in a respectful nod as they left, hands clasped before him and clenched tight until the skin split and stung. He welcomed it.
Alone at last, he made his slow way to the bed, fingers searching out the catch until he could lower the bar. Carefully, so carefully, lest he jostle Foggy, Matt slid into the bed, moving as close as he dared. Near enough that he could feel every breath Foggy took, and that his heartbeat rang deafeningly loud in his ears.
Security did not return, neither the police Matt had half-expected. Several times he lifted his head at the squeak of sneakers of the floor, sharp disinfectant and the slosh of a mop telling him their mess was being cleaned up. No one spoke to him though he heard whispers out in the hall- what the hell was the protocol for that cane? Should it be confiscated as a weapon?
He tuned it out, not waking again until a nurse stepped in, x-rays snapping in hand and a quiet, familiar step behind him.
“Is Foggy all right? I had to hear it from our neighbors that one of my friends had been creamed by a car. None of this is okay, Matt. None of it.”
“He’ll be all right.” It was more of a question than Matt wanted to admit, but he heard the shift of scrubs as the nurse nodded his agreement, x-rays still shuffling through his hands uncomfortably. That wasn’t the end of the story, but it was enough to set Matt at his ease.
He spoke again with more confidence: “He’ll be fine.”
Stick V. Nelson-Murdock Part 2.7 (2.6)
But Foggy’s heartbeat was erratic and his breathing ragged, even with all the walls separating them and the bustle of the hospital all around Matt swore he could hear the creak of bone and shifting tendon as Foggy tried anything to get comfortable again.
The thought of losing Foggy completely was worse, the idea of visiting not one but two graves and the people he cared most about in the world no longer being in it. Stick would expect this, he had not been the master for nothing, but Matt had to draw him out into the open. He had to be dealt with swiftly and decisively, in such a way that Foggy could feel safe again in his own city.
He never would, not completely. Not after Fisk or Mrs. Cardenas, Urich or any of the dozens that had died to make Hell’s Kitchen what it was today. This one fear at least he could eliminate: Stick would never harm Foggy again, not after tonight.
Matt pushed onward, gripping his cane tighter with each passing second until his fingers ached with it. He settled in the cafeteria, a maelstrom of noise and scents that nearly overwhelmed him, but he could hear Foggy’s heartbeat still, the steady clicks and beeps of the machine that told him all was still well. Foggy would live, a little battered, a little bruised, but very much alive. Stick- Matt would try. For Foggy’s sake and his own he would try, even with a violence crawling beneath his skin that he hadn’t felt since that panicked call from Claire as she was dragged from her home.
The Russians had lived then. He had felt her eyes on him and known that for all she was angry and hurt, she did not want them dead. Foggy was different, a shower and a handful of sutures would not fix him; the nightmares probably wouldn’t fade for months if then, and dammit but Stick was right- Foggy was soft in a way neither he nor Claire had ever been. If Stick had taken that from him, Matt was going to hurt him until his hands ached for days and his every step was a constant reminder that he could be pushed too far.
Absorbed in thoughts of Foggy, fretting over results he had yet to hear, running through calming exercises to keep from actually leaving hospital grounds to hunt Stick down, somehow he missed the falsely limping tread Stick affected when he wanted to be mistaken for less than he was. He missed the way nurse’s and doctor’s footsteps faltered when they moved to make room for the old man’s motionless cane held out defensively before him. He missed the pull of the curtain and the metallic shriek as it moved. In fact, the one thing he could not fail to hear, the one thing that would haunt his nightmares until the day he finally hung up his suit, was Foggy’s muffled scream, the way his heartbeat flew even as his breathing stopped, his choked attempt at a last breath-
Matt flew past the guest at the door, not hearing his cut-off expletive, barely remembering to keep his cane clamped to his side in his haste. He pretended not to here the surprised gasps of staff and patients alike as he bolted past, ignored shouted requests to walk slowly in the hallway, and deftly changed direction at the familiar tap of security’s standard issue boots.
The curtain’s fabric split from the divider with a dull tearing sound, Matt could not be bothered to care. He could feel Stick standing there, fairly radiating malice as one cruel hand pushed into Foggy’s ribs until a minor crack became a fracture. He could hear the final gasp just before Foggy surrendered to the pain of it, hear the muffled grunt of satisfaction Stick gave at seeing his work accomplished. Matt’s gut churned with fury, his cane connecting with Stick’s own before he was even aware it had changed hands.
“Back the hell away from him.” It was the Devil’s words on his lips now, stress and anger making his tone gravelly and low. He was grateful Foggy would not hear him; he had been through too much to add this to the list. As soon as they were home Matt would bundle him into bed and damn well keep him there until he no longer radiated such primal fear and agony.
“I thought I heard your step when I came in. I didn’t think I was going to get a moment alone with him.”
Matt bit down on his cheek, using the sharp taste of iron to ground himself. “This is the last time. I’m telling you this now: I will kill you before you hurt him again.”
He could hear Stick tilting his head, no heavy breathing or heightened pulse to indicate he had heard Matt’s threat. When he spoke it was with an overtone of disappointment that had Matt’s hackles rising with the need to attack.
“No, you still don’t have it in you. This is what I get for taking the guilty catholic boy. You never grew out of it.”
That should have been the end of it, Matt prayed that would be the end of it. This was a hospital, a place of rest, and he did not want to bring their feud here, but when Stick turned toward Foggy again what fragile grip he had on his banked fury slipped for the briefest second.
The next moment Stick’s throat was beneath his hand, bobbing with the effort of swallowing, the nails of one hand were digging into Matt’s skin through his suit and the other was pounding into his ribs, bruising- cracking, he hoped. It was what he deserved, it was what he had allowed to happen to Foggy. The chirp of radios drifted to him in the background, the scurry of anxious feet as staff jumped aside for security. Matt did not stop when he felt their hands on him, fixated only on the demon in his arms.
He barely noticed when Stick’s fist slammed into his jaw, and again into his diaphragm. He was already ill, already so consumed with a fierce desire to hurt he couldn’t breathe. He felt it when his knuckles connected with Stick’s shoulder, pushing it from its socket with ease, he felt it when his left hook caught Stick in the kidney and when his elbow caught the man restraining him in the chin. The way Stick’s ribs yielded beneath his hands was a revelation: if he hit a little farther to the left he could shatter the sternum, stop the heart, send Stick to hell where he would threaten no one ever again.
Matt sucked his lip into his mouth, prepared to deliver a blow that would make the choice for him. He tasted blood and sweat, felt the scrape of whiskers just beneath his skin, the steady throbbing everywhere that Stick’s fists had landed and the weak flutter of his muscles as Stick writhed to break his hold, catching his wrist in a way that would fracture it if he didn’t let go, perhaps even if he did. All pain he deserved.
Then the steady beep and whir of the monitor pierced the haze of his bloodlust, the labored sound of Foggy still struggling to breathe past the pain even in his state. Foggy would forgive him in time. Foggy would comfort him, tell him it had been a case of momentary insanity. He would bankrupt them finding a defense attorney, one that would not need to claim conflict of interest, and when at last the cards fell however they did, he would stay, using all the skills and eloquence at his disposal to make Matt lay aside his guilt for a few precious hours every day.
He would never forgive himself, though. In his mind, it would always be his fault regardless of whether he was conscious for the final blow or not. Foggy would hate what the man had done, to Matt, to himself, to all the others that hadn’t been saved, but it would never occur to him to commit murder over it.
Foggy was still the man that had lied for months about being a vegetarian to avoid eating Matt’s lamb because he had petted one once as a child. He had paced a thin spot into the rug outside his office the night after chasing down Karen’s attackers with a baseball bat, wiping his hands against his suit as though he still felt the impact. He had been staunchly in favor of trusting that Fisk would be locked away, that there was no need to work outside the system he had dedicated the better part of his academic career to studying. He had been looking for an excuse to leave with Matt, follow him into hell on the off chance that they could make a difference. As attorneys, not vigilantes.
Matt’s fist dropped, shoulders bowing beneath the weight of what he was about to do.
Stick would go free, and Matt would spend every night hereafter praying he didn’t pay too steep a price for his mercy.
It was too much though, asking him to extend a hand in forgiveness to his enemy. He stepped away, adding another notch to a steadily growing tally he would confess when Foggy was well enough to do without him. Could a man confess and ask forgiveness when he could not bring himself to repent? And if a man that thought in his heart had as good as committed should he now make amends for murder?
The courts would not agree, Foggy would not agree, but even allowing Stick to gain his feet took all the willpower Matt could muster. Hearing him brush himself down, evade the well-meant assistance of gathered security, waving off their concerns in a manner that left them in no doubt who would have been the victim had their fight continued.
Matt had his own opinions on that score, but he held his silence as Stick was escorted out, no further words spoken between them. It went without saying that Stick would return, in months or years it hardly mattered, because Matt knew he was canny enough to have felt the intention in Matt’s hands. Hurting Foggy Nelson again meant death, approaching him was at best a risky proposition. Stick would not take a risk without the guarantee of reward, and as far as Matt was concerned his duty toward his mentor was long since satisfied.
He could feel the trepidation and the heavy stares as security limped from the room, a few of them nursing bruises they hadn’t had at the beginning of shift. He wasn’t sure if they intended to file a police report, and after the day he had had did not give a single damn. Yet shame made him incline his head in a respectful nod as they left, hands clasped before him and clenched tight until the skin split and stung. He welcomed it.
Alone at last, he made his slow way to the bed, fingers searching out the catch until he could lower the bar. Carefully, so carefully, lest he jostle Foggy, Matt slid into the bed, moving as close as he dared. Near enough that he could feel every breath Foggy took, and that his heartbeat rang deafeningly loud in his ears.
Security did not return, neither the police Matt had half-expected. Several times he lifted his head at the squeak of sneakers of the floor, sharp disinfectant and the slosh of a mop telling him their mess was being cleaned up. No one spoke to him though he heard whispers out in the hall- what the hell was the protocol for that cane? Should it be confiscated as a weapon?
He tuned it out, not waking again until a nurse stepped in, x-rays snapping in hand and a quiet, familiar step behind him.
“Is Foggy all right? I had to hear it from our neighbors that one of my friends had been creamed by a car. None of this is okay, Matt. None of it.”
“He’ll be all right.” It was more of a question than Matt wanted to admit, but he heard the shift of scrubs as the nurse nodded his agreement, x-rays still shuffling through his hands uncomfortably. That wasn’t the end of the story, but it was enough to set Matt at his ease.
He spoke again with more confidence: “He’ll be fine.”