The pale moon is high and full in the sky, swallowed whole by the storm-dark clouds. Shepherded by their anxious parents, the last little trick-or-treater scurried home hours ago, the last straggling drunk college students in their skimpy costumes are staggering back to their halls, and now more malicious souls creep through the night playing their dark games.
Brett Mahoney should be on patrol. They know separate three gangs are taking advantage of the confusion to bring in large shipments of drugs and there’s already been five robberies. But instead Brett’s tucked away at the back of the bullpen staring down at the silver flask in the bottom drawer of his desk. He did go out but the gaudy costumes, ghoulish decorations and rowdy high spirits had driven him back into the sanctuary of his shadowed station.
It’s all too similar to last year. It could be last year, when he took a call because he knew the address and drove over to find his childhood friend sprawled out in the street broken and dying. Foggy had barely been conscious, he’d blinked a couple of times at Brett and let out a soft sigh of a word that Brett only recognized because he knew Foggy was begging for his husband. Then Foggy died there in the street, Murdock’s name his last breath, and all Brett could do for him was reach out with a shaky hand and close Foggy’s eyes for the final time.
Gun tight in in his fist, Brett run up four flights of stairs, heart pounding loud in his ears – and was too late again. Murdock was splayed out on the coffee table like an obscene center-piece, ink-dark blood dripped over ash-white skin.
Brett pressed two fingers to his bruised throat and found a faint thready fading pulse. He grabbed the blanket from over the back of couch, the normality of the soft fuzzy cream wool under his hands steadying him until he looked back at Murdock and froze. Absurdly the thought twisted through his mind that he couldn’t touch Murdock because he’d get the blanket dirty. The more relevant objection that he didn’t know how to touch Murdock without hurting him held him in place. There was so much blood he couldn’t work out where he could apply pressure to staunch it, or even if he could.
It seemed he stood there for hours watching Murdock bleed out but it could only have been moments before the sharp wail of the ambulance shocked him into motion. He draped the blanket over Murdock in a pathetic attempt to ward off the patiently waiting death, spun on his heel, and hurried away to fetch the ambulance crew.
He risked one backward glance – the blanket was already stained rusty with Murdock’s blood.
Brett shakes himself violently, emerging from his memories with a frantic gasp for air, heart stuttering his chest. He decides screw it, he’s been sober five months, he can risk a drink. Sliding onto his knees, he snatches up his silver flask, spins the top with practiced fingers and takes a gulp, raw whiskey making his throat burn and his eyes sting.
Murdock, stubborn little shit that he was, managed to live another thirty hours. Brett stayed with him, almost jumping out of his skin when Murdock’s body spasmed, his hand clenching down on Brett’s and his sightless eyes flew open, staring blank and empty at the ceiling. Brett has no idea how, because Murdock was blind and there was no chance to say anything, but he’s still convinced that half a second of consciousness was enough for Murdock to realize Foggy was gone, because with one harsh exhale he breathed out the last of his life and his body died as it slumped back against the too clean sheets.
Brett takes another slug of whiskey as he remembers what happened next, or rather what didn’t happen. When he staggered down to the station, still groggy even after sleeping away the day, he found that while he’d waited those long hours at the hospital his co-workers – not colleagues, not friends, never again – had wrapped up the case as violent home invasion. Some poor homeless guy too spun out on drugs to even know what day it was had confessed and taken a plea deal to avoid trial. All wrapped up so nice and neat all that was missing was a big shiny bow.
He may have punched some people then, but was just patted on the head, sent home on leave, and allowed to come back when it was clear he wasn’t going to rock the boat. Brett had just nodded along. He’d have been happy to tip the whole boat over, but what good would that do, he’d only get shot in the back for his trouble, and nothing else would change. It was better to keep his head down and eyes open and maybe he’d get a chance.
At least that was what he tells himself every day to justify not fighting. He hadn’t taken Fisk’s money but he might as well have done and somedays he can’t stand living in his own skin. He leans back against the wall and stares up at the black clouded sky as whiskey and tears burn through him.
As he watches, for a just moment, the ghostly light of the moon breaks through the darkness.
Fill: Matt/Foggy The Crow AU. Major character death. Self harm 1/3
Devil’s Night – One Year Later
The pale moon is high and full in the sky, swallowed whole by the storm-dark clouds. Shepherded by their anxious parents, the last little trick-or-treater scurried home hours ago, the last straggling drunk college students in their skimpy costumes are staggering back to their halls, and now more malicious souls creep through the night playing their dark games.
Brett Mahoney should be on patrol. They know separate three gangs are taking advantage of the confusion to bring in large shipments of drugs and there’s already been five robberies. But instead Brett’s tucked away at the back of the bullpen staring down at the silver flask in the bottom drawer of his desk. He did go out but the gaudy costumes, ghoulish decorations and rowdy high spirits had driven him back into the sanctuary of his shadowed station.
It’s all too similar to last year. It could be last year, when he took a call because he knew the address and drove over to find his childhood friend sprawled out in the street broken and dying. Foggy had barely been conscious, he’d blinked a couple of times at Brett and let out a soft sigh of a word that Brett only recognized because he knew Foggy was begging for his husband. Then Foggy died there in the street, Murdock’s name his last breath, and all Brett could do for him was reach out with a shaky hand and close Foggy’s eyes for the final time.
Gun tight in in his fist, Brett run up four flights of stairs, heart pounding loud in his ears – and was too late again. Murdock was splayed out on the coffee table like an obscene center-piece, ink-dark blood dripped over ash-white skin.
Brett pressed two fingers to his bruised throat and found a faint thready fading pulse. He grabbed the blanket from over the back of couch, the normality of the soft fuzzy cream wool under his hands steadying him until he looked back at Murdock and froze. Absurdly the thought twisted through his mind that he couldn’t touch Murdock because he’d get the blanket dirty. The more relevant objection that he didn’t know how to touch Murdock without hurting him held him in place. There was so much blood he couldn’t work out where he could apply pressure to staunch it, or even if he could.
It seemed he stood there for hours watching Murdock bleed out but it could only have been moments before the sharp wail of the ambulance shocked him into motion. He draped the blanket over Murdock in a pathetic attempt to ward off the patiently waiting death, spun on his heel, and hurried away to fetch the ambulance crew.
He risked one backward glance – the blanket was already stained rusty with Murdock’s blood.
Brett shakes himself violently, emerging from his memories with a frantic gasp for air, heart stuttering his chest. He decides screw it, he’s been sober five months, he can risk a drink. Sliding onto his knees, he snatches up his silver flask, spins the top with practiced fingers and takes a gulp, raw whiskey making his throat burn and his eyes sting.
Murdock, stubborn little shit that he was, managed to live another thirty hours. Brett stayed with him, almost jumping out of his skin when Murdock’s body spasmed, his hand clenching down on Brett’s and his sightless eyes flew open, staring blank and empty at the ceiling. Brett has no idea how, because Murdock was blind and there was no chance to say anything, but he’s still convinced that half a second of consciousness was enough for Murdock to realize Foggy was gone, because with one harsh exhale he breathed out the last of his life and his body died as it slumped back against the too clean sheets.
Brett takes another slug of whiskey as he remembers what happened next, or rather what didn’t happen. When he staggered down to the station, still groggy even after sleeping away the day, he found that while he’d waited those long hours at the hospital his co-workers – not colleagues, not friends, never again – had wrapped up the case as violent home invasion. Some poor homeless guy too spun out on drugs to even know what day it was had confessed and taken a plea deal to avoid trial. All wrapped up so nice and neat all that was missing was a big shiny bow.
He may have punched some people then, but was just patted on the head, sent home on leave, and allowed to come back when it was clear he wasn’t going to rock the boat. Brett had just nodded along. He’d have been happy to tip the whole boat over, but what good would that do, he’d only get shot in the back for his trouble, and nothing else would change. It was better to keep his head down and eyes open and maybe he’d get a chance.
At least that was what he tells himself every day to justify not fighting. He hadn’t taken Fisk’s money but he might as well have done and somedays he can’t stand living in his own skin. He leans back against the wall and stares up at the black clouded sky as whiskey and tears burn through him.
As he watches, for a just moment, the ghostly light of the moon breaks through the darkness.