Foggy/Matt story, part 1/4: "Possum Ran Over My Grave"
For LJ Idol, we've had a break week, with four non-mandatory prompts, so I've decided to write a Matt/Foggy fanfic in four parts. Author's notes at the end of each part will explain a little more of my thought processes from prompt to story. Thanks for reading!
Quick summary of Daredevil for those unfamiliar with the fandom: Defense attorney Matt Murdock (aka Daredevil) is blind, but the accident that took his eyesight left his other senses super heightened. Matt's father was a boxer, and he trained with a strict master called "Stick" to become a skilled martial artist. Foggy Nelson was Matt's room mate at Columbia; they became best friends, went to law school together, and opened a law practice in Hell's Kitchen as partners. They are estranged because Matt lied to Foggy about his senses, and Foggy doesn't approve of Matt's life as a vigilante. Created by Stan Lee in 1964, Daredevil is now a Netflix series, with Charie Cox as Matt and Elden Henson as Foggy.
Please note: this story is Gen, deep friendship between Matt and Foggy. Takes place after Netflix Season 2.
===
Foggy nodded at the bartender, and she poured them another round. The bartender’s name was Madison, not Josie, and she was pouring the Macallan, not the Eel.Foggy leaned against the well-polished bar, no worries about sullying the sleeves of his jacket with sticky schmutz of unknown origin. Well-heeled professionals clustered here and there in the dim light, chatting low and trying to put their everyday concerns to bed for the night.
Karen smiled unhappily at her whisky. She looked good, Foggy thought, comfortable in the practical garb and walking shoes of an investigative reporter fast making a name for herself.
“It doesn’t look good,” she finally said, lifting her gaze to meet Foggy’s.
Foggy frowned. He didn’t want to talk about it.
“Come on, it’s nothing but chatter,” he began, but the burning in his gut wasn’t from the eighteen year single malt his new job afforded him.
Karen’s blue eyes burned into his, her fine brows creased with concern. “Chatter’s not nothing, not when there’s this much of it.”
Foggy didn’t remember so many explosions in the Hell’s Kitchen of his youth. Now they seemed to take place like clockwork, gutting warehouses, shattering homes, demolishing cars that sat unattended for just a little too long.
The Devil had been spotted at the docks. Maybe there had been some underworld shipment. Maybe a firefight. Almost certainly there had been spinning kicks and fisticuffs. But then, the explosion. And after that, nothing out of Matt for two, almost three weeks now.
Karen had made the rounds the morning after, but no one fitting Matt’s description had turned up, which at the time had been a relief. Matt tended to hole up to lick his wounds. After three days of phone messages unanswered, a vacant apartment, and Claire reporting that Matt hadn't called her either, Karen called Foggy.
At first Foggy was angry. The anger was always just below the surface nowadays. It seethed, a mixture of worry, resentment, guilt, and justifiable righteous indignation. Foggy told himself that righteousness filled out the lion’s share of the pie chart, and busied his brain with images of righteous lions feasting on rich, meaty pies, as opposed to the stale crust and meagre meringue of the humble pie an associate like Foggy (on the fast track to partner) did not deign to dip his fork into.
In reality, Foggy was hungry, and no amount of pie, whatever the variety, could hope to satisfy his craving. Foggy had spent ten years relying on a good right hand man, and now that right hand had been lopped off. Foggy had walked the halls of Columbia, the corridors of Landman and Zack, the streets of Hell’s Kitchen with Matt’s hand resting lightly on his arm, Matt’s rich chuckle filling his ears, Matt’s clever thoughts lined up in step with his own. Now there was a bitter, cold, echoing void that his new job at HCB could not hope to sate, despite its ample offerings of prestige, exhaustion, and billable hours.
“Foggy, he might not be coming back,” Karen said, trying to soften the steel in her tone.
“That’s not my problem anymore,” Foggy said, determined not to be moved.
“You’re still his next of kin,” Karen said, color rising. Her pale complexion broadcast every emotion like a neon sign.
“Elektra left him a fortune,” Foggy sighed. “The last time I talked to Claire, she told me that Matt told her his bills are set to autopay. I don’t even know what you want me to take care of.”
Karen stared at him, eyes bright with emotion. “So you’re saying, Foggy Nelson doesn’t care that Matt Murdock might be dead.”
“I didn’t say that,” Foggy said, lowering his head. He threw back his Macallan, a shameful waste. In the old days, at least he could have been shredding the label off Matt’s imported beer. “You shouldn’t say that.”
“That he might be dead or that you don’t care?” Karen demanded.
“I care, okay?” Foggy said. “He was my best friend for years, Karen. Years! He threw that away, not me. He cut me out of his life. How was I supposed to react? He lied to me, sabotaged our firm, walked one way and told me to walk the other. What is it you want me to do?”
Karen took a deep breath and let it out. She finished her drink, stood up, and lay her hand on Foggy’s shoulder.
“I want you to think about this: if Matt is dead, do you want this to be how it ended, with the two of you not speaking?"
“It doesn’t matter what I want,” Foggy said.
“It does matter,” Karen challenged.
“If he’s dead,” Foggy said, suppressing a shudder, “there’s nothing I can do about it now.”
“But if he isn’t, don’t you think this is kind of a wake up call?”
Foggy shook his head. “Matt can take care of himself.”
“What if he can’t?” Karen asked.
“I don’t know,” Foggy said. Matt was strong, but he was vulnerable. He was smart and resourceful, but he wasn’t superhuman. His senses told him so much about the world, but they couldn’t tell him what fate held in store.
“I want him to be okay,” Karen said. “I want him to turn up so I can rip him a new one for worrying me like this. But most of all, I want the two of you to get past this stupid estrangement. You’re his best friend, Foggy. You need each other.”
“He doesn’t need me, Karen,” Foggy said, and that right there was the hole, the pit, the void in his gut. “He proved that when we shuttered Nelson and Murdock.”
Karen shook her head. “Maybe you didn’t work out as law partners, but you can’t let that kill a friendship like the two of you have.”
The hole inside Foggy felt as deep and wide as a grave. “I thought we’d grow old side by side,” he admitted, sadly.
“Maybe you still can,” Karen said. “If you get the chance, don’t let it go.”
Foggy threw a hundred on the bar and saw Karen into her ride. He walked, the Kitchen streets old and familiar to him, his regular human eyes and ears set to a regular level of vigilance.
Something rattled as he passed an alleyway.
Despite himself he had to look.
Cautiously, he moved a few steps away from the street into the littered zone between the buildings.
The biggest rat he’d ever seen emerged from under a pile of old crates, huge and gray-white like a possum. It looked at him, streetlight reflecting eerily in its eyes. It stared at Foggy calmly like it was staring across his grave, into his very soul, then turned with a swish of its long, scaly tail and paced further down the alley, disappearing into the darkness.
Foggy was left staring into the empty night, no idea why he was still standing there.
===
author's notes:
The prompt, "Possum ran over my grave," refers to an alt-country song by Jesse Dayton, and I like it! The song seems to be a tribute to the late country singer George Jones, called Possum because of his looks. Dayton's song refers to one of George Jones's biggest hits, " He stopped loving her today," about a man who only stops loving his ex when he dies. I've seen a number of Possums in my day, never eaten one, and never felt like one ran over my grave. Fun fact: in Washington DC we once saw what looked like an enormous rat crossing the street -- but it was really a Possum! For you Aussies out there, the opossum is our native North American marsupial, and they carry their young in a pouch. Possums are mosty harmless, like to hiss and play dead, and do not carry rabies.
My take on the prompt is, that Foggy may feel so furious and betrayed that he is willing to let Matt shut down their law practice and their friendship -- but only death could ever truly stop them loving each other.
I've often wondered what Matt's "spirit animal" might be -- I think it's a skinny, tough, feral tomcat -- but Possum is also fun to contemplate.
===
link to part 2: Jantelagen
Quick summary of Daredevil for those unfamiliar with the fandom: Defense attorney Matt Murdock (aka Daredevil) is blind, but the accident that took his eyesight left his other senses super heightened. Matt's father was a boxer, and he trained with a strict master called "Stick" to become a skilled martial artist. Foggy Nelson was Matt's room mate at Columbia; they became best friends, went to law school together, and opened a law practice in Hell's Kitchen as partners. They are estranged because Matt lied to Foggy about his senses, and Foggy doesn't approve of Matt's life as a vigilante. Created by Stan Lee in 1964, Daredevil is now a Netflix series, with Charie Cox as Matt and Elden Henson as Foggy.
Please note: this story is Gen, deep friendship between Matt and Foggy. Takes place after Netflix Season 2.
===
Foggy nodded at the bartender, and she poured them another round. The bartender’s name was Madison, not Josie, and she was pouring the Macallan, not the Eel.Foggy leaned against the well-polished bar, no worries about sullying the sleeves of his jacket with sticky schmutz of unknown origin. Well-heeled professionals clustered here and there in the dim light, chatting low and trying to put their everyday concerns to bed for the night.
Karen smiled unhappily at her whisky. She looked good, Foggy thought, comfortable in the practical garb and walking shoes of an investigative reporter fast making a name for herself.
“It doesn’t look good,” she finally said, lifting her gaze to meet Foggy’s.
Foggy frowned. He didn’t want to talk about it.
“Come on, it’s nothing but chatter,” he began, but the burning in his gut wasn’t from the eighteen year single malt his new job afforded him.
Karen’s blue eyes burned into his, her fine brows creased with concern. “Chatter’s not nothing, not when there’s this much of it.”
Foggy didn’t remember so many explosions in the Hell’s Kitchen of his youth. Now they seemed to take place like clockwork, gutting warehouses, shattering homes, demolishing cars that sat unattended for just a little too long.
The Devil had been spotted at the docks. Maybe there had been some underworld shipment. Maybe a firefight. Almost certainly there had been spinning kicks and fisticuffs. But then, the explosion. And after that, nothing out of Matt for two, almost three weeks now.
Karen had made the rounds the morning after, but no one fitting Matt’s description had turned up, which at the time had been a relief. Matt tended to hole up to lick his wounds. After three days of phone messages unanswered, a vacant apartment, and Claire reporting that Matt hadn't called her either, Karen called Foggy.
At first Foggy was angry. The anger was always just below the surface nowadays. It seethed, a mixture of worry, resentment, guilt, and justifiable righteous indignation. Foggy told himself that righteousness filled out the lion’s share of the pie chart, and busied his brain with images of righteous lions feasting on rich, meaty pies, as opposed to the stale crust and meagre meringue of the humble pie an associate like Foggy (on the fast track to partner) did not deign to dip his fork into.
In reality, Foggy was hungry, and no amount of pie, whatever the variety, could hope to satisfy his craving. Foggy had spent ten years relying on a good right hand man, and now that right hand had been lopped off. Foggy had walked the halls of Columbia, the corridors of Landman and Zack, the streets of Hell’s Kitchen with Matt’s hand resting lightly on his arm, Matt’s rich chuckle filling his ears, Matt’s clever thoughts lined up in step with his own. Now there was a bitter, cold, echoing void that his new job at HCB could not hope to sate, despite its ample offerings of prestige, exhaustion, and billable hours.
“Foggy, he might not be coming back,” Karen said, trying to soften the steel in her tone.
“That’s not my problem anymore,” Foggy said, determined not to be moved.
“You’re still his next of kin,” Karen said, color rising. Her pale complexion broadcast every emotion like a neon sign.
“Elektra left him a fortune,” Foggy sighed. “The last time I talked to Claire, she told me that Matt told her his bills are set to autopay. I don’t even know what you want me to take care of.”
Karen stared at him, eyes bright with emotion. “So you’re saying, Foggy Nelson doesn’t care that Matt Murdock might be dead.”
“I didn’t say that,” Foggy said, lowering his head. He threw back his Macallan, a shameful waste. In the old days, at least he could have been shredding the label off Matt’s imported beer. “You shouldn’t say that.”
“That he might be dead or that you don’t care?” Karen demanded.
“I care, okay?” Foggy said. “He was my best friend for years, Karen. Years! He threw that away, not me. He cut me out of his life. How was I supposed to react? He lied to me, sabotaged our firm, walked one way and told me to walk the other. What is it you want me to do?”
Karen took a deep breath and let it out. She finished her drink, stood up, and lay her hand on Foggy’s shoulder.
“I want you to think about this: if Matt is dead, do you want this to be how it ended, with the two of you not speaking?"
“It doesn’t matter what I want,” Foggy said.
“It does matter,” Karen challenged.
“If he’s dead,” Foggy said, suppressing a shudder, “there’s nothing I can do about it now.”
“But if he isn’t, don’t you think this is kind of a wake up call?”
Foggy shook his head. “Matt can take care of himself.”
“What if he can’t?” Karen asked.
“I don’t know,” Foggy said. Matt was strong, but he was vulnerable. He was smart and resourceful, but he wasn’t superhuman. His senses told him so much about the world, but they couldn’t tell him what fate held in store.
“I want him to be okay,” Karen said. “I want him to turn up so I can rip him a new one for worrying me like this. But most of all, I want the two of you to get past this stupid estrangement. You’re his best friend, Foggy. You need each other.”
“He doesn’t need me, Karen,” Foggy said, and that right there was the hole, the pit, the void in his gut. “He proved that when we shuttered Nelson and Murdock.”
Karen shook her head. “Maybe you didn’t work out as law partners, but you can’t let that kill a friendship like the two of you have.”
The hole inside Foggy felt as deep and wide as a grave. “I thought we’d grow old side by side,” he admitted, sadly.
“Maybe you still can,” Karen said. “If you get the chance, don’t let it go.”
Foggy threw a hundred on the bar and saw Karen into her ride. He walked, the Kitchen streets old and familiar to him, his regular human eyes and ears set to a regular level of vigilance.
Something rattled as he passed an alleyway.
Despite himself he had to look.
Cautiously, he moved a few steps away from the street into the littered zone between the buildings.
The biggest rat he’d ever seen emerged from under a pile of old crates, huge and gray-white like a possum. It looked at him, streetlight reflecting eerily in its eyes. It stared at Foggy calmly like it was staring across his grave, into his very soul, then turned with a swish of its long, scaly tail and paced further down the alley, disappearing into the darkness.
Foggy was left staring into the empty night, no idea why he was still standing there.
===
author's notes:
The prompt, "Possum ran over my grave," refers to an alt-country song by Jesse Dayton, and I like it! The song seems to be a tribute to the late country singer George Jones, called Possum because of his looks. Dayton's song refers to one of George Jones's biggest hits, " He stopped loving her today," about a man who only stops loving his ex when he dies. I've seen a number of Possums in my day, never eaten one, and never felt like one ran over my grave. Fun fact: in Washington DC we once saw what looked like an enormous rat crossing the street -- but it was really a Possum! For you Aussies out there, the opossum is our native North American marsupial, and they carry their young in a pouch. Possums are mosty harmless, like to hiss and play dead, and do not carry rabies.
My take on the prompt is, that Foggy may feel so furious and betrayed that he is willing to let Matt shut down their law practice and their friendship -- but only death could ever truly stop them loving each other.
I've often wondered what Matt's "spirit animal" might be -- I think it's a skinny, tough, feral tomcat -- but Possum is also fun to contemplate.
===
link to part 2: Jantelagen