Chapter Text
Frank Castle is one terrifying motherfucker.
He’s metal everywhere. Lead bullets. Iron blood. Steel muscle and demeanor. Breathtaking. Heartstopping. Not in the poetic way.
Fair warning to anyone who ever witnesses him in action.
These are the few thoughts one Franklin Nelson has, shielded by an upturned desk as he tries desperately to remember the breathing exercises he learned in therapy.
He’s still shaking when all the movement stops. And suddenly a broad chest with a garish skull logo is filling his vision. Foggy shifts his gaze upward to meet stone cold eyes and then down to moving lips. Which he can’t hear. Holy shit, he can’t hear. Foggy is only now realizing that the world around him is awash with a tinny ringing sound. And he still can’t fucking move.
He watches vacantly as Castle sighs and pulls him up by the arm.
Distantly, Foggy registers being roughly led out of the abandoned warehouse (cliché, he knows) and into the cooling night air. As soon as his feet find the concrete, he collapses again, and the other figure stops to lean on the wall next to him.
Foggy takes a few steadying breathes and eventually things begin to enter his brain again. The rushing river water. The distant car honking. The shuffling of heavy lead and weaponry as Frank Fucking Castle does the busy work of reloading his conspicuous white van. Oh, Foggy can hear again.
“What the fuck just happened?” Foggy asks. The hysteria in his veins still thick and persistent.
“Nothing. You’re fine, Nelson,” comes the curt reply.
“No. None of that fuckery because holy shit, Frank I think three dozen people just died!”
“Thirty-eight, actually. If I got my math right.”
“Yes, that’s the point that needs elaboration,” Foggy twitches. He feels a chill worm its way up his spine. “Okay, I’m either going to vomit or scream, so please tell me what just happened before I do something drastic and/or very embarrassing.”
"It’s a farm. Weed, cocaine, potentially something new. A little bird told me it makes people go berserk on the streets. You know this, Nelson, don’t insult me.” Castle lists impatiently.
“The Shaughnessy case,” Foggy concludes.
“Bingo. You found something before I did, so congratulations, Counselor. Unfortunately, you only had enough sense to bring the mace on your keychain and not enough sense to consider that people can be violent when their illegal activity is uncovered.”
“Yeah, I’m not exactly made for combat.”
“You’re too soft. Too trusting. You gotta assume the worst sometimes.”
“I don’t like it when people die, Frank!” Foggy exclaims. “My entire life is trying to make less of that happen in the world!” He scrubs his face and feels the need to do something with his hands. He settles for pacing a little instead.
Frank sets his jaw a little bit. “You and Red, huh? Not everyone can be saved. Not everyone is worth saving. I’ve said it before and I’m gonna keep saying it until people like you get it.”
“Innocent until proven guilty. Human rights and freedoms. The law tries only to step in when people blow through that for themselves. And people dying, Frank? That’s a pretty big infringement on people’s rights and freedoms!”
Against all expectation, Castle twitches in what might almost be a smirk. It might be menacing. “Lawyers. Can’t see any fucking sense. Let me ask you, kid, How’s your client doing, huh? Cure in sight?”
That shuts Foggy up.
“Thought so. What do you think’s gonna happen if that shit gets unleashed into the city, huh? We got, what, a few kilos in that warehouse, and 38 people inhaling that shit all day, knowing the recipe. Let it loose in the city unsupervised. What happens?”
“We might find a cure. There are teams working on a cure,” Foggy counters weakly. There’s a sinking feeling because they haven’t made much progress so far. "Besides we don't know for sure if this is what's doing it."
"You gonna gamble with people's lives like that? If this project gets any bigger, more people die. I'm nipping it at the bud. That's all."
"Where's the due diligence?" Foggy groans.
"I'm diligent."
"Jesus Christ, what is with you doom and gloom types? So dramatic all the time."
The behemoth of a man huffs. “Hey, do me a favour." He hands Foggy a pair of industrial gloves and a tankard of gasoline. Gingerly, the actual, literal serial killer pats him on the cheek. “Get moving, kid.”
Franklin P. Nelson is an attorney who spends his days arguing for the improvement of case law in all of America such that it better reflects the needs of the vulnerable and exploited. He has argued with powerful lawyers with case records trailing back before he was a twinge in his father’s balls. He has presented cases in front of renowned justices who have tapped their gavel and changed the direction of legal discourse on global levels. He has stood and represented some scary and powerful motherfuckers. Hell, he’d represented Frank Castle, and he had not been tongue tied even then.
But he has nothing to say now. Just a lot to ruminate in as he empties the gasoline all over piles and piles of an underground drug that's allegedly just regular old cocaine, which has been making his life a living hell for the past few days, and all over the bodies of the people who had been manufacturing it. He sees some of their faces. He can trace their snuffed out life trajectories by them.
He’s seen so many cases in his life. You come to a new country, and you have no prospects. You hear from a friend of a friend that there’s an easy job that pays a lot, but you gotta be really careful. Or, you find out your kid has stage II cancer, deep in the marrow, and you realize your health insurance doesn’t cover dependents, so you call in a cousin of a friend and ask for a loan that you promise to work for. Or you’re an addict that owes some money and you’re sick of getting on your knees. He’s seen it all.
One thing Foggy knows is that most people don’t wake up one day wanting to be the hands doing illicit labour where you’re subject to the same trappings of late stage capitalism but without the health and dental.
It’s a shame. He meets the still open eyes of a boy with latex-gloved hands and hole in his throat. He can’t be older than 20. Foggy can already feel that it’s going to haunt him for a while, but it’s hardly the first time he’s been confronted with mortality, so he swallows that rising bile.
“Hey, Nelson. We gotta get out of here ASAP. Sun’s gonna be up in the next hour and we gotta be out of here,” Castle calls from the door. A courtesy he didn’t have to offer. Foggy rushes over with the boy still staring on, judging the pair as they make their escape.
~~
It’s a little surreal, sitting in the passenger’s seat beside Frank Castle, illuminated by the red light of the fire that Foggy himself had helped create. Bitterly, distantly, Foggy is relieved that whatever substance had been created can’t do any more harm. Lives had been lost, yes. Thirty eight whole lives that will now be holes for families and friends to try and fill with grief and acceptance once they get the awful news. That is, if they receive the news at all. Yes, a tragedy. But no more. No more lives lost to this. No more people suffering like Shaughnessy, locked in a cage in a straightjacket, whose loved ones are grieving despite his still being here. “No more” is also a strange comfort. One that he feels guilty for feeling.
“You okay, kid?” Frank asks, eventually, carefully.
“No, Frank, I am not okay. But thank you.”
“Hm.” It’s not an addition to the conversation. Frank doesn’t want a conversation.
“No, seriously. Thank you. For saving my hide. And also, for making sure no one else has to go through whatever that drug does. It’s not pretty.”
Castle nods. Stoic, as always. But he takes a turn that is pointedly in the opposite direction of Foggy’s apartment (yes, Foggy knows he should be more worried that Frank Castle probably knows where he lives, but he also doesn’t think Castle is the type to come an event unprepared).
“Where are we headed?”
Frank doesn’t answer until they’re parked outside of a cute little diner. “Let’s get some breakfast, Counselor.” The fucking Punisher hands him a very large black hoodie. “In case you don’t want the security cameras to recognize you.” And Foggy finds himself being ushered inside by a strong hand gently on his arm.
They don’t talk to each other until they’re both two coffees in and Frank has had a plate of toast and eggs, and Foggy’s working through the same with the addition of some bacon and stale apple pie that he stress ordered. So sue him, the waitress is charming and the night’s been terrible.
“Were you following me?” Foggy asks, finally, around a forkful of tender fruit and sugar.
Frank just stares for a second and nods.
“Why?”
“You’re smart. You had a lead so I followed.”
“For how long?”
“Three days.”
“Jesus Christ.”
Silence.
“Does no one have respect for privacy?”
Silence, again.
The silence stretches for the duration of the meal.
“Hey, you got cash?” Frank asks when they’re nearly done.
Foggy scoffs, because he is tired and his brain is more or less on autopilot. “You asked me out, isn’t it customary for you to pay?” but he’s already taking out his wallet because of course, Frank Castle doesn’t carry money around on these bloody excursions. Unlike Foggy, who is always at least semi-muggable with his fat wallet and lack of self-defense skills.
Frank, miraculously, huffs as if he has a sense of humour.
Foggy lays down a fifty because fuck it, it’s been a weird night and someone needs to be compensated, even if it’s just the waitress. They leave before they even get the bill.
~~
Frank drives him home in the silence, and he doesn’t seem to want conversation. This suits Foggy fine because he finds himself dozing in the cool light of the dawning day listening to some early commuter jazz station. He thinks about the thousands of people who still have another hour or so before they have to get up for work on a Thursday morning. And when they get up, they’ll go about their lives, maybe read about a warehouse burning down in a freak accident, and Foggy will know about it intimately and no one else will find out what he knows. He thinks about the boy who died with open eyes. He thinks about Shaughnessy. He thinks about his client's wife and kids. He thinks about Frank Castle and the cargo that sits mere inches behind him, dirty with fresh blood.
Soon, they’re just outside of Foggy’s apartment, and warm hands shake him conscious. Foggy makes to get out but turns back.
“It’s not over yet, is it?” he asks.
Frank answers in the affirmative. His tone is cold, as it always is. He faces forward, concentrating hard on the road ahead of him, hands not leaving the steering wheel.
“Any idea who might be at the top of it?” Negative. “Are there other sites for, uh, manufacturing?” Uncertain. “Fuck me, huh?”
Frank turns to face Foggy this time. Eyes intense. “Keep me updated if you find anything,” he tells him.
Indulging in the deep sigh building from the pit of his stomach, Foggy steps out into the morning chill. There are a few cars driving lazily on the street now. Some birds are chirping their cheery greetings.
“How exactly am I gonna contact you?” Foggy asks, leaning on the window as if he were a teenager reluctantly saying goodbye after a long date. It’s a very different context, and Foggy catches a glimpse of some blood on his shirtsleeve that he hadn’t noticed before.
“You’ll think of something and I’ll know.”
“You’re not gonna stop following me, are you?”
Frank just shrugs and starts to drive away. “See you around, kid.” And very soon, the car is lost from Foggy’s field of vision. All is as it was, as if nothing ever happened. Except even Foggy can smell himself.
“Well, fuck me,” Foggy sighs at no one in particular, deflating to a crouch on the sidewalk. He gives himself a few light slaps on the cheek before walking to the front door, suddenly feeling quite exhausted.
When he gets his keys out his fingers land on a small mace dispenser and Foggy inexplicably wants to cry even though he feels a laugh rumbling from his chest.
He gets in the elevator and a kid that lives two floors down also gets in, walking off being drunk and high in equal parts at 5:21 in the morning. A late night, just like Foggy. She can’t be more than 20, probably a college kid, if the way she dresses and smells is any indication. Her backpack is littered with buttons she could have obtained from campus. Activist groups for the rights of immigrants, increased access to health care, for increased education about drug addiction. He thinks about the boy in the warehouse again, who wouldn’t have a chance to change the world because he might be young but he's also dead.
She turns to him and smiles, and even with ruined makeup and a rumpled skirt, she’s gloriously alive and full of potential.
“Nice night?” she asks him, taking in his similarly disheveled appearance. Foggy is made acutely aware that he must make quite a picture, with his messy hair, dark green dress shirt untucked from his black dress pants, and a too-large black hoodie. It smells like gunpowder. He hopes the girl doesn’t notice this over the smell of her dank weed, or notice the splotches of dark blood all over his person (thankfully barely perceptible on all the black).
So Foggy huffs out a laugh, not quite ready to incriminate himself, but too tired for full on dishonestly. “It was interesting, at least. You?”
She hums with a smile, pleasant and heady, it seems. She must have had a good night. She’s also probably feeling too honest for very different reasons. She puts a hand by her mouth, as if to whisper even though they’re on opposite sides of the elevator. “I kissed someone very hot last night,” she comments dreamily.
“I’m happy for you,” Foggy tells her. It’s not exactly easy, but it’s certainly the most pleasant interaction he’s had in at least 72 hours so he will take it.
“Thanks,” the girl answers as the elevator stops on her floor. “Have a nice day, sir,” she throws behind a shoulder as she walks airily out of the elevator.
When he gets inside his apartment, he rushes to take off his clothes and puts them hurriedly in the washing machine, putting in twice the amount of detergent and stain remover he usually would, especially for such a small load. He sets the machine to the hottest and longest setting and lets it rumble to life before sighing deeply. Then, he makes his way, naked, to the bathroom where he vomits for a solid five minutes.
~~
When he’s freshly showered and in his most comfortable pair of pyjamas, it’s 6:37 in the morning. He composes a text to Karen, something halfway honest about feeling awful and spending the morning puking, because neither Karen nor Matt knew that Foggy was going to be out last night, and Foggy had really been hoping his investigation would not take as long as it had. He had really been hoping there would be less bloodshed, so it had been a shitty night all around. He tucks himself completely under the covers and slips into a fitful sleep with his heart still pounding.