A/N: Wow. It's been a very, very long time. I was cleaning my hard drive for the first time in a while when I came across this story. It's actually part one of two, but part two (Maggie's side) isn't finished, and I doubt it ever will be, so I'm marking it as complete. I figure this story has been waiting to be published for going on five years, which is long enough. It was the fifth DD story I'd ever written. I hope you enjoy.

Update December 15, 2014: Thank you to HimeFlye. I can't believe how many spelling/word usage mistakes I'd made! I'd re-read this story at least 50 times, and I'd missed so many things! I've gone back and fixed everything I could find. I've also tightened some of the sentences. The story remains the same, though.

Goodbye Murdock

Jack stared down the barrel, remembering when he used to be that man. The man that held that gun. How long had it been? Not long enough according to the man next to the thug with the gun. No, not long enough.

"Maggie!" Jack tore through the tiny apartment, searching for some sign of his wife. Instead of her smiling face, he found…nothing. Everything was as it had always been. The clean laundry was drying on the clothesline, the tiny bed was made, the floor was swept, but no Maggie.

Then it hit him. Maggie was gone.

For the first few days, Jack stayed in bed, staring at the door, willing his soulmate to walk through it. In the beginning he was alone, but then one day a bottle of whiskey joined him. Sometimes he would be sober enough to remember Maggie telling him that he'd had enough, but then the memory would make him drink more.

At first the drinking wasn't a problem. His trainer didn't care as long as he showed up and fought a good fight. Then one night Jack arrived to a match so drunk, he could barely stand, let alone walk. He was knocked out in the first ten seconds of the first round. As soon as he returned to consciousness, his trainer dropped him like a rock and Battlin' Jack battled no more.

Three whiskey-filled months later, Jack found himself as an "enforcer" for one of Hell's Kitchen's biggest crime bosses, the Fixer. In exchange for a few dollars that were immediately dissolved into liquor, Jack terrified the people with whom he'd grown up. His boxer body became broad, burley, and thuggish; the eyes that used to be filled with love and happiness turned cold, sorrowful, and drunk. Jack had become a reflection of the man he was before.

Then one day, months (or was it years?) later, everything changed. Jack fumbled up the stairs to the dilapidating apartment. He struggled to unlock the door, finally succeeding and falling drunkenly on the door, which collapsed inwardly. It was from this position that Jack saw his wife sitting next to the grimy window. He tried to speak, but nothing came out. His eyes fell on a bundle in her arms.

"What's that?" he mumbled, his mouth pressed against the care-worn rug.

Maggie slowly stood up, the cloak she was wearing falling away, showing…a baby.

Jack sprang to his feet, a look of surprise reflected clearly in his wife's brown eyes. His muddled brain did calculations as quickly as the alcohol would allow.

"Is that why you left?" He stared into her eyes, smiling widely. "We could have made it work. You didn't have to leave." He walked closer, but Maggie pulled away.

"No Jack, he's not why." Jack should have paused in his tracks, but he'd only managed to process the fact that he had a son.

"It's a boy?"

Maggie nodded, forsaking telling him the reason for her desertion for now. "His name is Matthew."

Jack looked up at her, surprised. "You named him already?"

Once again, the woman nodded. "The sisters did."

"Sisters?" Suddenly Jack's eyes registered the gold cross dangling above his baby from around his wife's neck. "Oh no, you didn't."

Maggie ducked her head and held out their son for Jack to take. In the process, the novice uniform under her cloak became visible for the first time. "Yes, I did."

Jack held his son, his mouth open in horror. "Why?" he squeaked.

"What we did was a sin."

"No! It wasn't! What we did, what we had-it was the only right thing I've ever done! Don't tell me it was wrong!"

Maggie backed away, shaking her head. "Take care of him, Jack."

She was almost out the door when she stopped, her back to her shocked husband and still sleeping son. "Tell him I'm dead. Please, Jack."

She walked away, the peaceful baby the only sign that she'd been there at all.

Jack tried to run after her, running out of the seedy apartment and down into the grimy street, the baby awake now and crying, but she was gone. He looked down at his son, and this time he cried. Cried for his lost life, his love, and for the baby who would grow up without a mother and with a drunken thug for a father. And when the tears stopped falling, he looked into his son's eyes and he was done.

The man in the suit walked into the light, and Jack saw the person – no thing – he used to work for. The thing opened his mouth.

"So what were you thinking, Jack?"

"What'cha thinking 'bout, Mattie?" Jacked stared down at his son who was almost six now.

Matt looked up. "Where's Mommy?" he asked suddenly.

Jack visibly jerked back, surprised by the question. "What did you just say?"

"Where is Mommy?" Matt's rich blue eyes were full of questions.

"She's," Jack paused, unsure of what to say. "She's gone."

Matt stood up. "Is she coming back?"

Jack felt his eyes glisten despite his best efforts to rein in the tears. He couldn't let his son see him cry. It wouldn't be right. "No, she's not."

Matt didn't press the subject. He didn't want his father to be sad. He hugged his dad, trying to convey as much love as he could.

After a while, Jack squeaked, "I love you so much." He hesitated a millisecond, "And I'm sure she does too."

That night Jack left his son in the care of a kind neighbor, telling her he would be back as soon as he could. He patted his son lightly on the top of his head and left.

He took a deep breath of air before walking through the huge, oak doors. He passed lit candles smelling like strong beeswax, passed the confessionals, finally stopping in front of the huge cross.

Jack gazed at the statue, not really seeing, just remembering. The first time he burped Matt, the first diaper, the first middle-of-the-night wakeup call, the first step, the first word, the first gold star. He smiled at the memories playing in front of him.

"Can I help you?" A nun asked.

Jack jumped in surprise. He stared at the nun for a minute before saying, "Tell her she's missing him."

"You know, Jack" the important man continued, "you made me do this."

"Why do we have to go to church every Sunday?" The ten-year old Matt pulled on the collar Jack had forced him to wear.

Jack kept walking, ignoring the question.

"What do we believe in, Dad?" Matt prodded. He knew that if he asked enough questions, soon his father would answer. "Do you believe in God?"

Jack stopped at the heavy, oak doors, deciding that Matt had asked enough questions. "Look Mattie, God isn't the only one watching."

"We only asked you to do one thing." The man lit a cigarette; Jack could see the little flame glowing in the dark. "Are you listening, Jack?"

"Did you hear what I said?" Jack called from his spot in front of the TV.

"Yes," the eleven-year old replied, coming into the living room.

"What'd I say?"

Matt paused for a second. "You said that I had to finish my homework."

"Right. And have you?" Jack pushed himself off the only comfy chair.

Matt looked down. "Yes."

Jack walked up to his son, pulling his head up to look into his eyes. "Don't lie to me, boy." Matt tried to pull away, but Jack was stronger than him by far. "You listen to me: you're not going anywhere until your homework is done and you've studied."

"But-"

"No! I said no!" Jack shook his son roughly. "You are going to study and go to college and then you're going to be a doctor or a lawyer. Somebody important. You hear me?"

"Yes, I-I'm sorry," Matt stuttered. His father had never been so rough with him before when he was sober.

Suddenly Jack realized what he'd just done. "Oh my God, Mattie. I am so sorry."

He grabbed his son, pulling him into a tight embrace. "I love you so much."

Matt pressed his face into Jack's shoulder, breathing in the rich smell of his father's aftershave. "I know, Dad, I know."

"Ya used to be so dependable, you know." The man took a long drag on the cigarette. He pulled it from his lips and allowed it to drop to the cold cement where he ground it under his foot. "I never expected to have to do this."

"They made me do it!" Matt was almost crying, his bloody lip had burst open again and was bleeding anew. A drop of the crimson liquid landed on his faded t-shirt as he yelled."They've been teasing me since second grade!"

"You promised me! You've lived with them for six years, you could handle another few!" Jack's anger filled the room. Matt could feel it crashing around him in waves.

"That's just it! I couldn't take it any more!" Matt's eyes glistened so brightly that Jack was surprised. His son was staring him down, so Jack pushed harder.

"Look here boy, you promised me you would study. You are not going to be like me, ya' hear?" Jack broke eye contact, not wanting to see the glint in his son's deep blue eyes. "You know what. Leave!"

"What?"

"Leave! Go and don't come back until you can prove to me that you aren't going to fight again!"

Matt crumbled and ran. He almost ran after Matt to apologize and beg his son's forgiveness, but no, he couldn't; Matt had to learn that a promise is a promise. One day, Jack hoped, Matt would realize that Matt's bloody lip hurt Jack even more than it hurt him.

The gun clicked as the thug switched the safety off. Jack took a deep breath. The man in charge kept talking, but Jack barely heard him. Then the guy hit a nerve.

"Now, what are we going to do about your son? I guess deaf isn't far from blind, is it?"

"Blind?"

Jack couldn't process what the doctor was telling him. Nothing made any sense. How could his son be blind?

"Yes, I'm afraid so. The liquid was some isotope I've – well, we've –never seen before."

"Isotope?" Jack hadn't really heard the doctor when he'd explained what had happened to his son.

"Yes, that's what splashed into your son's face." The doctor tried to sound compassionate, but Jack only heard him sound like a reporter, as if his son was a thing to be marveled at, not seen as a young, smart, teenage boy.

Jack pulled away from the doctor's attempts to be comforting. "When can I see him?" His voice cracked midway through the sentence.

The doctor looked at his watch. "The plastic surgeons are still working on him. I'm not sure when they'll be done. The damage was quite severe. "

An icy claw clamped around Jack's heart. "Damage?" he breathed, "I thought you said the liquid just hit his eyes."

"It did, but-" he checked the chart for confirmation, "Matt's face was also burned."

The dread grew, eating away at Jack's insides and simultaneously turning them to stone. "Will he look, you know…?" Jack couldn't bring himself to continue.

The doctor shook his head encouragingly. "Our surgeons are some of the best in New York. He'll look as good as new by the time they're done."

The man patted Jack on the back. He would have stayed longer, had his name not been announced over the loudspeaker to report to the nurses' station.

Jack just stood there, his hair a mess, t-shirt stained and ratty, smelling of stale booze, thinking about his son. Remembering his dark red hair, graceful nose, and strong, determined jaw. He tried not to think about the sparkling eyes that only a few hours ago had been staring him down.

The nurse at the desk was watching TV. Jack paused for a second as he heard the news story.

"…came running out of nowhere. Pushed me out of the way. Saved my life." The old man on the tiny screen seemed flustered, but fine. Jack's eyes and ears were glued to the screen as the reporter on the scene continued:

"The name of the boy is still being withheld. Witnesses tell us that he was rushed to the Empire State Hospital after sustaining multiple burns to his eyes and face."

The picture on the screen changed and the anchor gracefully closed the story.

"New York is grateful for the bravery of one of its younger citizens. Now to you, Jim, with the weather."

The nurse suddenly realized Jack was standing there. "Oh my goodness, I'm so sorry." She quickly turned the television off, flustered, but Jack hadn't really registered the movement.

Jack kept hearing the reporter's last line: "…burns to his eyes and face."

Jack had always known his son was brave, and he'd hoped someone else would agree with him, but not like this. He'd always hoped Matt would be on TV, but never, ever, because of something like this. The report was the last straw; Jack wept.

After a while, Jack pulled himself together. The last doctor had told him there was a public phone somewhere, and Jack set himself the task of finding it. When he finally did, he hesitantly dialed a number.

"I need to talk to my wife." He didn't bother with a hello, as this was not the time for pleasantries. The nun on the other end didn't even ask his name. He heard her call to someone and a minute later, Jack heard the voice that he hadn't heard for nearly fifteen years.

"Jack? What's happened?" Maggie sounded fearful, almost as if she already knew what he was going to say.

"Empire State Hospital. Matt…" Jack's voice trailed off, the tears threatening to come back. He couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence. All he could manage was one word: "Come."

He hung up without waiting for a response.

The man lit another cigarette. Jack allowed himself the satisfaction of thinking that at least he wasn't the only one who was going to die in the next five years. Not much a consolation, but still, it allowed some peace from the monologue.

The guy continued his speech once again. "Remember how I helped you? And this how you repay me?"

Jack stood outside the seafood restaurant trying to remember what in the world he was doing there. He started to turn around, but the image of his son's white cane made him turn back.

He took a deep breath, knowing that he had to do this for his son, no matter how stupid it was. He held his breath as he walked through the doors. He tried not to show his fear as he walked past the thugs standing guard in the back.

"What do you want?" one asked. If Jack had been in in other state-of-mind, he would have laughed at the pea-brained bodyguard's surprise.

Instead, Jack looked straight into his dull eyes. "I need to talk to the boss."

"Oh yeah? Well the boss is busy. Looks like you're going to have to go home." The second thug pushed Jack in the chest with one finger.

Jack looked at the finger, his jaw clenched. "I'm not going anywhere. Not until I see the Fixer."

The two idiots looked at each other, conferring silently. The first one who'd spoken relayed their conclusions. "Look here, we got our orders, buddy. We ain't lettin' you in."

He'd pushed Jack's last button. Jack felt the adrenaline pump threw his veins and he went with it.

POW! The first thug was down with a right hook. The second one tried to hit Jack with a bad punch, but BANG! Jack knocked him into the door, which collapsed under their combined weight. It hadn't taken longer than a few seconds.

"What the hell!" The Fixer didn't seem too happy from where Jack was standing, or more like sitting, on the thug.

Jack scrambled up, trying to look dignified; the two guys he'd been fighting, however, were out cold.

"I need to speak with you," Jack said, confidence ebbing slightly.

"What'cha want?" The Fixer lit a cigarette calmly and leaned back.

"I'm here to tell you, I'm quitting. I've had enough." This was bold, bordering on stupid, Jack knew. No one quit working for the biggest crime boss unless they had a death wish.

The Fixer was clearly thinking about this fact as he asked, "Oh is that so? And what do you expect me to do about it?"

Jack didn't waver. His son needed him now. "I expect you to let me go." As soon as the words left his mouth, Jack knew he shouldn't have said them.

"No." The man remained steadfast, sucking on his smelly cigar. "But then again…"

Jack's ears perked up. Was the boss reconsidering? He kept his mouth shut, not wanting to jinx it.

"You did take down two of my guys." Jack looked back at the thugs, still out cold. He couldn't bring himself to regret his actions. "I'll tell you what, Jack, how about we make a deal?"

Jack waited for the bomb to fall, "What?"

"You come on board this new thing I've invested in, fight ya' know, and you won't have'ta to be an enforcer for me ever again."

Jack didn't trust a man who kept two idiots like the ones he'd just "fought" outside. Plus it sounded too good to be true. "What's the catch?"

"Hah, you weren't so cautious last time, eh?" Another drag of nicotine, "No catch. You go back in the ring, and I'll be your manager. I'll set up the fights, you just show up."

It didn't seem possible to Jack. It was too easy, but then again, what choice did he have? Either he remained a thug or he took the Fixer's offer and returned to being punched for a living. It was a no-brainer.

"I'll take it."

"You were my best boxier. Won me a fortune."

The Fixer blew a smoke ring that immediately reverted into a smelly cloud of carbon dioxide. Jack held his breath, waiting for it to dissipate.

"I asked you to do one thing, that's it, one thing."

"Evening, Jack." The Fixer didn't bother knocking on the locker room's door.

Jack looked up from taping his hands. "Fixer," he greeted, unsure of why the boss would come personally to one of his training bouts.

"You know what I was thinking?" The Fixer sat down on the bench next to him. "I was thinking that you've been workin' real hard these last few months. So hard, in fact, that you should take it easy. Real easy, if you know what I mean."

Jack couldn't believe what he was hearing. "I don't think I do."

The Fixer scowled. "Why don't you stay away from the gym for a while? Say until your next match?"

"But I barely won against Miller last week! How can I win if I don't practice?" Jack refused to believe what the fixer was hinting.

"Miller? God Jack, you're 42 years old. You didn't beat anyone. Mack, Colan, Bendis. You can thank me for that. And now I'm saying it's your turn. Fourth round."

The manager/crook got up, a wide smile cracking broadly. "See you later, then."

Jack just sat there, too surprised to move. He slowly unwrapped the tape from his hands. At least for now, he would do what the boss wanted.

For the first time, the Fixer got physical.

He kicked Jack, hard, in the spleen. Jack was sure he'd ruptured something.

"I help you and what do you do?"

"Are you ready?" Jack turned in his seat to look at his son.

"What?"

"Dad!" Matt tapped the bench with his cane, exasperated. He'd been talking to Jack for the last few minutes. "You haven't been listening to a word I've been saying, have you?"

"I'm sorry, Mattie, tell me again." Matt sighed and repeated the news that he and his roommate, Foggy Nelson, were going to open their own law firm as soon as they graduated from Columbia Law next year. But once again, Jack was in his own world.

The Fixer had told him to take a dive in the fourth round, but Jack was unsure about what he should do. He looked again at his son, who was almost twenty-four now and blinder than a bat.

The smarter side of his brain told him to take the dive and then retire and protect his blind son. And yet his heart said the opposite. Could he do it? Could he knowingly disobey the Fixer? Worse, could he disappoint his son? He'd always enforced in his son the importance of doing what was right, no matter the consequences. But he'd also made sure his son would never be like him. Surely Mattie knew by now that he should do what Jack said, not what he did. Mattie would never back down. But Mattie also needed him. Mattie needed to be protected from the world and evil he couldn't see.

Jack shook his head. His thoughts were going around in circles, making him dizzier than a hard knock on the head. Matt stopped talking mid-sentence.

"What's wrong?" Matt asked, surprising his father. Jack would never cease to be amazed by his son's ability to pick up on non-verbal clues. "I heard you move."

"Nothin'. I was just getting warmed up," Jack lied, hoping his son wouldn't call his bluff.

After a few moments, Matt got up to leave. Jack stood up and distractedly asked if Matt wanted help finding his seat. Matt declined, but before he got to the door, he added: "You're going to do great, as always. We'll be waiting to congratulate you, me and Foggy."

Matt's words cut into Jack like a knife. He wanted to tell his son to go, to not to watch him throw a fight, and he almost did. Only the bell calling the boxers into the ring stopped him.

Jack walked out of the tunnel, greeted by a thousand encouraging cheers. The sight and sound sent stones toppling into his gut. He couldn't do it, he just couldn't. Not when he was so close to the gold. Then his eyes fell on Matt. He stared at his son for an eternity with the well-known feeling of guilt bubbling under the surface.

Jack stared at the dark sunglasses, eyes lingering slowly on the white cane casually leaning against his son's shoulder. Jack's gaze shifted, focusing on the Fixer now. He couldn't take his eyes off the evil looks or threatening glances toward his son.

Then the moment was over. The bell had rung; the fight was on.

"You know what I keep asking myself, Jack? I keep asking myself why. What were you thinking?"

WHAM! The punch sent Jack spiraling into the mat. It was so comfortable there; Jack didn't want to move. And it was the fourth round, why shouldn't he stay?

"One!" The referee slammed his fist down next to Jack's aching head.

Jack wasn't going to move. He was much too comfortable, lying there on the mat. He could see his son from here.

"Two!" Matt looked a lot like his mother. They both had the same eyes-well they used to. Matt's eyes were cloudy now.

"Three!" The Fixer was nodding his head, smiling like the Mona Lisa, as if he and Jack shared a secret. The smile made Jack feel sick, but he stayed down.

"Four!" Jack looked at his son again. His son was weak; he needed to be protected.

"Five!" Jack watched as Matt sat glued to the edge of his chair, his face forward, as if he could see. Another pang of guilt washed over Jack. He knew he deserved it for what he'd done to his son. It had all been his fault. Matt would never have been out that day, in the path of that truck, if it hadn't been for him.

"Six!" Matt was so still. His best friend was jumping up and down, but Matt was sitting like a cat, barely moving an inch. He was so confident. Jack wanted to smile, but the movement would look strange, not to mention aggravate the developing facial bruising.

"Seven!" Foggy was trying to get the man sitting behind them to pass their drinks. Jack had always suspected he didn't care for boxing all that much and apparently he'd been right.

"Eight!" Foggy stood up to reach the drinks.

"Nine!" Someone knocked into Foggy, sending his cup flying. Jack's heart jumped as the drink came sailing closer to Matt. It was going to hit his son, cover him in a sticky, icy substance! But then, just before the cup could hit, Matt moved, almost imperceptibly. The drink crashed on the man beside him.

Suddenly, Jack knew. Jack understood everything. Matt could take care of himself. He didn't need to be protected.

The ref was pulling back, getting ready to call the last number, but he never got the chance.

Jack was up, because now was his moment. He'd found out how to plaster his opponent earlier, but ignored it, planning to follow the Fixer's orders. Now, however, he plastered.

Two seconds later, it was over, Lee knocked out colder than a hunk of frozen meat.

The Fixer yanked the gun out of his thug's hands and aimed it directly at Jack's heart. "Any last words, Jack?"

Jack smiled, his gums bleeding and blood gushing out of his freshly re-broken nose. "Yeah. You asked me why? Well the reason was because I'm not that man and God isn't the only one watching."

"Not good enough." The Fixer cocked the gun. "Goodbye, Murdock."

He pulled the trigger.