October, 1999
He can't breathe. He can't breathe, and it's been eight goddamn years, and still when overwhelmed, he finds himself looking for bright blue eyes and a heart-shaped face and thin lips twisting with the wickedest sense of humour he'd ever encountered.
Talk to Alyssa, his brain suggests.
Not an option. Sweeney had just made that particularly clear.
Take a pass? he'd drawled, grey eyes hard like concrete. I don't think so. I know where those kids of yours – jerking his chin to Jess and Matt – go to school. And you know that if you go to the cops – well, I'd find you before they could even call the D.A.
Why had he let someone close enough for this scenario to come to pass anyway?
Childish laughter spills over from the other side of the ring.
He spins to see Matt pinned beneath Jessica, as she straddles him across the stomach. But her triumph is short-lived as Matty's dog Queen pads up to them and nuzzles Jessica in the chest until she overbalances and falls back off Matty's chest.
Right. That had been why. Matty'd always been so shy, so smart, he'd never had a prayer of blending in with kids in Hell's Kitchen. And somehow, a friend had found him anyway.
Wonder when he'll figure it out?
The signs were early, of course. But still, pretty damn obvious, Jack thinks.
Not that you have that excuse, Murdock.
Well, no. But Brian and Alyssa, they'd been so smart. Carefully inviting him and Matty into their lives, baby step by baby step, until they'd been seamlessly interwoven. Until there'd been a roster for afternoons so everyone's work schedule worked, until there'd been a beer pressed into his hand in a half-lit garage, until there'd been jokes about disasters with ham, binders full of research, and a recently made bet.
He's screwed. If he does take the fall, the cycle will just keep going, the threat still hanging over his head, and still hanging over his family. Sweeney's a sadistic bastard. He'll do anything with leverage once he's got it, for something he wants. And if Jack doesn't take the fall, then he'll die.
He looks over Matt and to Jessica, still giggling on Bernie's gym mat.
How do I keep them out of it?
He can't, not entirely. Still, he can try. And he hates lying, he always has, but the thing is, he's always been pretty good at it.
"I don't get it," Brian says. His tone says: seething with anger. So does his body, for that matter. Jaw, clenched; forehead, furrowed with a truly impressive scowl. He's never seen Brian this mad. But that makes sense. He's a patient guy, but you don't wanna be around him when he snaps. Reminds Jack of his Ma.
Sometimes, he wonders if there hasn't been an e-fucking-normous mistake made along the way, and they really were brothers, separated by some freaky series of events.
"I thought you said you wanted out of boxing, Jack."
"I do," Jack says, bracing himself mentally even as he straightens from where he's been leaning against the car.
Showtime.
"Then why," Brian snarls, "are you going back into the ring?"
Because it's the only way.
Jack sighs, leaning back against the Jeep.
The secret to every good lie is the truth.
"Who taught you about fixing cars, Brian?"
"Don't change the subject!"
"I'm not. Who taught you?"
"My Dad, who else?"
Jack nods.
Sorry, Uncle.
"I don't remember mine. I learned how to fight from my Uncle," he says. "He was a vet. Vietnam. Made it home. But his brother, my Dad, he didn't. And it…it broke something in him. He lived with us. Ma was afraid of what would happen to him on his own, and he wasn't married, no kids. When I was nine, he started teaching me how to fight. He had nightmares. All the time. And when he had 'em, he and I, we'd go down to Fogwell's, and beat the shit out of a bag or three."
He licks his lips. They suddenly feel dry.
"Ma, she always joked about the devil in the Murdock boys. It was how she dealt with it. Humour. But…I'm pretty sure she was right."
Brian sighs. "So you can't quit boxing."
Yes.
"No," Jack says. "I can. I just…I need to say goodbye to it properly. One last time. Then I'll put my gloves in the box. For good. Start a new life."
Brian sighs. "The last time?"
Jack nods. "The last time."
Enough.
Changing the subject would look suspicious, so he lets the silence hang, firmly stuffing the feeling of being little more than cesspool scum to the bottom of his throat.
It takes him a while to figure out where to hide the notes. He settles on in the second drawer of his bedside table.
Just in case, he tells himself, but he's not sure he believes it.
Sweeney's smile is thick and oily as Jack wraps his hands. Ed had been bemused, but had agreed to keep Matt and Jess busy until dinner so that he could train, despite it being Jack's turn on the roster. There's no way he's letting Jess – tiny, scarily observant girl that she is – be within 100 goddamn yards of Roscoe Sweeney. Not happening.
"So, we're agreed," Sweeney says. "You against Crusher Creel."
Jack closes his eyes, and finishes wrapping his right hand.
"Agreed," he tells Sweeney.
The man's face is triumphant.
Jack lets out a long, slow breath and stalks over to the punching bag, breathing in the smell of old leather, decades of sweat, and the faint tang of blood that hangs in Fogwell's air.
Surprisingly enough, pounding his fists against the bag while pretending that it's Sweeney's raping, murdering, extorting corpse helps ease the bitter taste in his mouth.
Matty's note is the last to be written. Brian's and Alyssa's are written: apologies which he'd carefully blotted the tears from when they'd come so that it wouldn't blur the ink of the pen, instructions for what to do…in case.
He's not sure when the 'in case' started feeling like certainty, sinking into his bones and skin.
The agonising over what to say lasts until 1:00am the morning of the Monday before the fight, when he takes a swig from the Scotch bottle and growls, "Fuck it."
Dear Matty,
If you're hearing this, then the odds are I never came home. We both know writing's not my thing, but you deserve an explanation. For all the things I never talked to you about when we could talk to each other.
So…let's start at the beginning.
I met your Mom when I was twenty-two. I'd had a win, and I was at the bar celebrating with Lopez and Salvatore. Considering that it was Salvatore's ass I'd just kicked all over the ring, he was pretty nice about it.
This girl comes up to me, and she orders me – not asks, orders – to buy her a drink. I do as I'm told, we get to talking, and you know the end to the story already. It's the bits in between I've never told you about.
I was surprised as hell when we found out she was pregnant with you. Surprised and terrified and happier than I'd ever been, Matty. From the second they put you in my arms at the hospital, I knew I'd do anything to keep you safe and happy. Do anything so you could have a better life than I did. Be a better man than I was.
This might not make much sense to you now, slugger. I'm going to tell you anyway, so that when you're old enough, you'll have the answer in front of you.
Matty, your Mom was sick. Not physically sick, not cold and flu or stomach bug sick. In her mind. Every day, for her, it was like she was trapped in this pit in her head, and she couldn't do anything. She'd get angry, fast, and she was exhausted the whole time. Your Nana saw the signs. She'd seen it happen to so many women. She wanted Maggie to see a doctor, but Maggie refused. In the end, she left. She didn't think it was safe for you to be around her.
She loved you, Matty. But she was sick.
I love you too. But that's why I haven't come home.
When your Mom left, I started throwing fights to make ends meet. I don't regret it. It's kept us fed, and with a roof over our heads. But I'd be lying, again, if I said it hasn't bothered me. Especially when I know that so many of those fights, I could win.
I thought after the settlement money came through, I could quit. Start a normal life. It seems like I've pissed off too many people to do it. The thing is, they want to go after all of us. Not just me. You, and Alyssa and Brian, and Jess and Phil.
I can't let them do that, Matty. I can't let them hurt you. And this is the only way out of it for you I can see.
I love you. I'm so proud of you. I know part of the reason the accident hit you so hard was because you wanted to be a fighter, to be strong like how you always thought I was.
But Matty, here's the thing. You're not me.
You're so much more.
Love,
Dad
P.S. Hit the books, kid. I'll know. Tell Jess and Phil and Foggy the same, and that Uncle Jack sends his love.
He doesn't go to Havisham to make the arrangements, instead biting the bullet of how much the appointment will cost, and going to a lawyer in the Meatpacking District to get the will changed.
It'll be safer for everyone this way.
The suit still itches, and he feels like Matty, wanting to scratch at irritated skin. They should get that checked, actually. He's been trying to hide it, but he's been flinching at certain loud noises, and reacting to soft ones like they're loud.
"You want Matthew to inherit all of the money from the settlement?" the lawyer asks briskly.
Jack shakes his head. "No. Most of it. But he needs enough for college one day."
The lawyer hums, tapping at keys on the computer's keyboard. "Let's see. He's an academic boy?"
"Yeah. Loves school."
"Let's assume the worst – sorry, poor choice of phrasing – and assume that he will not be only studying a Bachelor's. About a million would be enough to see him through to a PhD at a top school in the country, plus expenses. Now, do you want to leave the rest of the money in the various investments? And who would you like to manage the portfolio, in the event?"
The words are said so briskly, it's almost startling. In the event .
"Alyssa Jones," Jack says.
The man looks startled. "Your broker?"
Hah. Me, with a broker.
"Close enough," Jack says.
"And you would like guardianship of your child to pass to…?"
Jack names his choice of guardian, and the lawyer nods. "Right. You rent your apartment so no property needs to be assigned, Matt's personal items will obviously go to him...what would you like to happen to your personal things?"
Jack shrugs. "Aside from my rosary, which'll go to Matty – I don't give a shit about the rest."
Why should I?
Again, the brisk nod.
He walks out of the office half an hour later, with a promise of a phone call when the documents are ready to be signed.
Dad's been a bit weird tonight. Normally before a fight, he gets a little more impatient, a little more snappy. But tonight, he'd said hello to both Alyssa and Brian by kissing them on the cheek. Matt knows because Brian had laughed and commented about how he must really be looking forward to the last fight, if he was going to kiss not just Alyssa but him as well. He picked up both Jess and Phil when they came out of their rooms, and settled them on one hip each.
"Jack, they're getting too big for you to pick them up," Alyssa laughs.
"Am not!" Phil protests indignantly.
"Are too," Jessica says.
"Hypocrite," Matt mumbles, because he hasn't heard her feet hit the floor yet.
"Drama king," Jess retorts, jumping off. "C'mon, we made pizza."
"Okay, slugger. You did all your homework?"
Matt nods. "Yep."
He had, mostly.
There's a pause, and then Alyssa speaks. "I'll make sure he does it after dinner."
"What's up with him?" Jess whispers into his ear. Her hair is tickling Matt's neck, and her voice is worried.
"I dunno," Matt whispers back. "He must be excited about the fight."
"...Maybe."
His veins are bubbling, fizzing, happiness spreading through every inch of him, warmth from the crown of his head to the tips of his toes.
"I knew he'd do it," he tells Jess. "I knew he'd do it."
"He looks pretty beat up, Matt."
"Look is overrated," Matt retorts, unable to keep the grin off his face.
"Over-rated?"
"People think it's more important than it is."
"Oh." Jess settles her head back on his shoulder.
An hour passes before Brian and Alyssa come and put them to bed. Matt settles into Phil's room – apparently, they've decided that they're getting too old for Matt and Jessica to keep sharing the bed, for some reason – and takes a deep breath. Eavesdropping really isn't that hard these days.
"Did you try calling the venue?" Alyssa whispers.
"Of course I called the venue!" Brian's voice is tight with worry. "Nobody picked up. I'm guessing they're not exactly manning the phone while the next fight is in progress."
"He's probably just been saying goodbyes. He's got, what, thirteen years' worth of friends to say goodbye too. Right?" Alyssa says. "He'll be home soon."
"Right," Brian says, with a definite tone of relief.
"And we're forcing him to get a pager after this."
"Yes. Yes, we absolutely are," Brian says. "We should get things ready for him, though."
"The Glenlivet it is."
"He's gonna need it. Remember senior year of your undergrad?"
"Yes, although I'd be a little startled if the exact same scenario played out with Jack."
"Your Dad would have an aneurysm."
"Please, that's his standard operating procedure as soon as I enter the room."
Brian's soft chuckle, and the sound of–
Matt winces. He so doesn't need to hear that. The speed at which he tries switching his focus to the sound of Phil's breathing, and the soft flannel of his pyjamas against his own skin is as fast as he can make it.
Hands, shaking him awake.
"Matt. Matt, sweetheart, I need you to wake up," Alyssa's voice, trembling and thick.
He opens his eyes, and tries to sit up. "Ugh," he manages. "What time is it?"
"Four. Matt, there's something you – I need to tell you something," she says.
Her voice is still thick, and she smells like - salt? Salt. Salt and water. Why?
"Okay?" Matt tries.
She starts to say something, and then her voice breaks midway through the word.
"Alyssa?" Matt asks, chill trickling down his spine. What the hell happened? Are you okay? He extends his hands, feeling for hers, until he finds the cool metal of her wedding ring. "Alyssa. Please? You're scaring me."
A deep, shuddering breath. "Oh, sweetheart ." Another deep breath. "Matt, I'm so sorry. Your Dad – he – he's dead."
Matt shakes his head. "Nah. Lopez and Salvatore probably dragged him to Josie's for one last time, and he forgot to call."
"No, Matt, he's dead. Brian just got a call from the police station. They identified him from the dental records."
"You're lying," Matt hears himself saying. "You're lying. There's – there's no way – you're lying."
Alyssa's hands, pulling him into a hug, and why are there tears running down his face? Why is his own voice like a shriek in his ears? It can't be true. It's not true.
"You're lying!"
Her hands smooth over his hair, as his body starts to shake.
