This concept was sort of percolating in my brain for several weeks, combining with a bunch of other observations and thoughts and then it just sort of ran away with me and turned into 3,000+ words of the angstiest angst ever. So. Hope this still scratches your itch.
CW for some pretty strong (assisted) suicide ideation.
Mercy
It must have been twenty years since he last held a gun.
The shape of the pistol was strange in his hand after so long; he had forgotten how small a gun was. But then, perhaps the difference in size was simply because his hand had finally grown into it.
His fingers went through the motions of cleaning and checking the gun by reflex, as though it had been only yesterday that Johnny had walked him through the motions. Stop rushing. Wipe in the direction the bullet moves. For God’s sake, don’t forget to unload it first. Do you want to get yourself killed?
An hour ago, he had let himself into the apartment with the key Matt had given him “for emergencies,” and he had since been turning over every aspect of what he would say—of what needed to be said.
In retrospect, he should have known that he couldn’t run from the Family forever. After the virtual declaration of independence his withdrawal from the training grounds of Landman and Zack had represented, he had been so afraid of reprisal that he never walked alone, always kept one eye cast over his shoulder, slept with his bat within reach of the bed. Months passed, and he heard nothing. Graduation came and went without comment. No untoward messages had found him at the office.
Though his pride was hurt by the knowledge that his defection wasn’t worth even the mildest intervention, he supposed that being disowned was better than being disemboweled.
Things changed after they took down Fisk. The firm was mentioned in the papers; they gave statements to TV news. Their do-gooder MO became common knowledge; Rosalind called him for the first time in five years and asked to talk in person. Foggy could think of a very few things that could mean, and none of them was good. He made sure that his affairs were in order: utilities, rent, will. Evidence of his connection to the mob in plain sight for any investigators who might have cause to visit a recently-vacated apartment.
The ultimatum he received was so much worse than the one he prepared for.
“Franklin,” she had greeted, cold and distant as ever behind her desk and her bodyguards. “I had hoped that you were smart enough to correct this situation on your own so that I wouldn’t have to waste my time. Perhaps I would save more time by anticipating disappointment.”
Foggy was an adult now, a lawyer trained to dissect and twist words to his own advantage. He now recognized her manipulations for what they were, was entirely capable of seeing through her demeanor. Her disapproval had stung nonetheless.
“I’ll be brief. This situation with the Syndicate has made your misguided attempts at going straight impossible to ignore. You’ve clearly shown yourself to be incapable of keeping the Family’s needs in mind when you’re around that Murdock boy,” she said, uttering Matt’s name like an expletive. “He distracts you and confuses your priorities, just like he always has. This situation cannot be allowed to continue.
“I am willing to offer you two options. The first is to take matters into your own hands. If you can convince him to leave the city by the end of the week, then I’ll forget all about little Matthew Murdock, and you can start doing the job we sent you to school for. If he’s still here past Sunday,” she continued, the afternoon light glancing off her coal-black eyes, “then we’ll have to handle matters ourselves. I can promise you, if you choose the second option, then he’ll never see Tuesday.”
If it were anyone else talking, if any other criminal had said something like that to Foggy, then he would never have hesitated to just tell Matt. He would have warned him of the danger and then stood aside to let him handle himself against the assassins. He would have known that, with enough warning, Daredevil could handle whatever they might throw at him. But Foggy knew that this Family, his Family, had assassins that neither Matt nor Daredevil was prepared to deal with.
He knew because, twenty years ago, he had been one.
FILL: "Mercy" (1/3)
This concept was sort of percolating in my brain for several weeks, combining with a bunch of other observations and thoughts and then it just sort of ran away with me and turned into 3,000+ words of the angstiest angst ever. So. Hope this still scratches your itch.
CW for some pretty strong (assisted) suicide ideation.
Mercy
It must have been twenty years since he last held a gun.
The shape of the pistol was strange in his hand after so long; he had forgotten how small a gun was. But then, perhaps the difference in size was simply because his hand had finally grown into it.
His fingers went through the motions of cleaning and checking the gun by reflex, as though it had been only yesterday that Johnny had walked him through the motions. Stop rushing. Wipe in the direction the bullet moves. For God’s sake, don’t forget to unload it first. Do you want to get yourself killed?
An hour ago, he had let himself into the apartment with the key Matt had given him “for emergencies,” and he had since been turning over every aspect of what he would say—of what needed to be said.
In retrospect, he should have known that he couldn’t run from the Family forever. After the virtual declaration of independence his withdrawal from the training grounds of Landman and Zack had represented, he had been so afraid of reprisal that he never walked alone, always kept one eye cast over his shoulder, slept with his bat within reach of the bed. Months passed, and he heard nothing. Graduation came and went without comment. No untoward messages had found him at the office.
Though his pride was hurt by the knowledge that his defection wasn’t worth even the mildest intervention, he supposed that being disowned was better than being disemboweled.
Things changed after they took down Fisk. The firm was mentioned in the papers; they gave statements to TV news. Their do-gooder MO became common knowledge; Rosalind called him for the first time in five years and asked to talk in person. Foggy could think of a very few things that could mean, and none of them was good. He made sure that his affairs were in order: utilities, rent, will. Evidence of his connection to the mob in plain sight for any investigators who might have cause to visit a recently-vacated apartment.
The ultimatum he received was so much worse than the one he prepared for.
“Franklin,” she had greeted, cold and distant as ever behind her desk and her bodyguards. “I had hoped that you were smart enough to correct this situation on your own so that I wouldn’t have to waste my time. Perhaps I would save more time by anticipating disappointment.”
Foggy was an adult now, a lawyer trained to dissect and twist words to his own advantage. He now recognized her manipulations for what they were, was entirely capable of seeing through her demeanor. Her disapproval had stung nonetheless.
“I’ll be brief. This situation with the Syndicate has made your misguided attempts at going straight impossible to ignore. You’ve clearly shown yourself to be incapable of keeping the Family’s needs in mind when you’re around that Murdock boy,” she said, uttering Matt’s name like an expletive. “He distracts you and confuses your priorities, just like he always has. This situation cannot be allowed to continue.
“I am willing to offer you two options. The first is to take matters into your own hands. If you can convince him to leave the city by the end of the week, then I’ll forget all about little Matthew Murdock, and you can start doing the job we sent you to school for. If he’s still here past Sunday,” she continued, the afternoon light glancing off her coal-black eyes, “then we’ll have to handle matters ourselves. I can promise you, if you choose the second option, then he’ll never see Tuesday.”
If it were anyone else talking, if any other criminal had said something like that to Foggy, then he would never have hesitated to just tell Matt. He would have warned him of the danger and then stood aside to let him handle himself against the assassins. He would have known that, with enough warning, Daredevil could handle whatever they might throw at him. But Foggy knew that this Family, his Family, had assassins that neither Matt nor Daredevil was prepared to deal with.
He knew because, twenty years ago, he had been one.