#//but its fine we're fine it's all fine Slade doesn't have custody of the Wilson family braincell anyway

[deathfxrhire]

I Warned You

Characters: Foggy Nelson ( @nelsons ) and Slade Wilson.  Matt Murdock ( @wcrldonfire ) referenced.

Word count: 2,419

Summary:  After the confrontation with Daredevil on the roof, Slade decides to follow through on paying Foggy a visit.

Triggers: Violence, blood, guns.  Hella angst (thanks Foggy).  

FOGGY: “Whatever you say, Murdock! You sure you don’t want me to come with?” Foggy yelled after the man, laughing when his friend flicked him off, saying something about the Chinese take out place a few blocks away. It had become a ritual, for Matt to come to Foggy’s temporary office a day or two a week, eat lunch with him, repair the relationship that had been so fragile over the last few years. It made the lawyer’s chest warm with this ache he couldn’t name, having a part of Matt back. Being a part of his life again. For once, things were going in a good direction - a positive one - since the whole...well, everything. Since things with Karen started. Since he and Matt fell apart the first time.

The door chimed again, and Foggy spun around in his computer chair, grin half-frozen on his face. Where he expected Matt Murdock, stood a tall man. Bold, wide in stature, full of muscle, one eye. Foggy tilted his head, genuine smile turning polite. “Oh uh, hi there.” Foggy pointed to the door, “Thought that was locked. Sorry about that — I’m actually out for lunch right now, but uh, you wanna come back in an hour and I can help you? Mr...?” He asked, trailing off at the serious expression the older man wore.

Foggy had to admit, he wasn’t getting a great vibe. Kind of like that time his aunt hired a clown for Foggy’s college going-away party, right before he’d gone to meet Matt. The eerie feeling of something inhuman looking back at you.

SLADE: Slade Wilson was not one for idle threats. He'd told Murdock during their showdown on the roof that he knew of Foggy, an implicit promise to make the vigilante pay if he tried to get in the way.

Murdock had decided to fight, forced him to come back another day for the kill, and the way Slade saw it, he owed the man fulfillment of his end of the bargain.

Nelson wasn't hard to find, nor was it difficult to time things for after Murdock left--he seemed, like many lawyers, to be something of a creature of habit. Picking the lock is child's play, but Nelson doesn't seem to realize that's what happened. Judging by the faintly wary look on his face, Foggy does realize that maybe his guest doesn't mean well.

Not a complete moron, then. Slade doesn't even bother trying to make the smile he returns look genuine. "Wilson." Without looking, he reaches behind him and flips the deadbolt, expression unfaltering. "There ya go. All locked up now. Wouldn't want anyone else walking in while you're on break, would we?"

Slade crosses to take a seat opposite Foggy, spinning the chair around so he can fold his arms across the back. Foggy Nelson doesn't look like he's got an ounce of defensive capabilities in his entire body, but even so, guns are easy to use at close range. He likes the barrier.

"Go on and eat, Mr. Nelson. Keep your hands visible, if it's not too much trouble." There's a click from behind the back of the chair. One that sounds distinctly like a gun's hammer going back. The smile doesn't falter.

FOGGY: Foggy forces himself to relax, smile more like a grimace now, as this Mr. Wilson makes himself at home in the somewhat empty office. All of the furniture is clumsy and secondhand - amazingly just like Nelson & Murdock had been - so Foggy prays for a second that maybe the shit computer chair will break right out from under the overly buff man, sending him to the floor and giving Foggy just enough time to begin to run away before Mr. Wilson shoots out his knee caps. “You know, funnily enough, I’m not feeling so hungry anymore.” Foggy lays both of his hands on his lap, steeple style like he’s seen Matt do at church, and makes sure he wiggles his fingers for Wilson, just in case the man decides one of them are in his pocket or something.

“What can I help you with today?” he asks, somehow hoping that Matt’s super Daredevil senses are tingling and he will come running back to Foggy and kick this guy’s ass for trying to hurt him. Even big, scary-strong, handsome men like Mr. Wilson get their butt handed to them by Daredevil from time to time. Besides, Foggy’s been shot before — he definitely doesn’t want a repeat performance if he doesn’t have to have one.

SLADE: Admirably steady, this one, despite appearances. Murdock sure knows how to pick 'em.

"You're very calm, Mr. Nelson. Not your first time?" Slade asks, though it's more rhetorical than anything. No one's that calm with a gunman less than ten feet in front of them unless it's not all that irregular an occurrence. "Probably not, I'm guessing, given the company you keep. He's not coming back, by the way--heard him catching a phone call from a 'Karen' on his way down the street. Otherwise he'd have noticed me, I've no doubt. Shame, that."

The sharp grin says otherwise.

The gun comes out to rest on the top of the chair, where his arm is folded, and his other hand reaches into his coat pocket for the suppressor as he continues to chat at the man. "I ran into him a few weeks ago. Told him his friend would be in some trouble if he got in my way. Stubborn man made me miss my shot, that night, so now I've gotta come pay you a visit. A man's word is all he has, you know. You appreciate that, I'm sure: the importance of contracts. I've got a reputation to uphold."

FOGGY: Foggy’s eyes follow the weapon, the first bite of a shiver rolling through his gut. Nausea and discomfort pull at him but Mr. Wilson thinks he’s steady. Thinks he’s cool and collected and is definitely talking like he knows about Matt and his evening activities. Foggy wishes that Matt was a blind stripper or something instead — something Foggy could understand — not a vigilante who hurts people and has their loved ones kidnapped. “So you’re mad at a blind man for making you miss your shot? Sounds a little like maybe you’re not a great shot,” he continues to talk, eyes flickering from the gun to around the room, wishing he had anything but pepper spray with him. His bag is hooked around the chair, but even with the pepper spray somehow in hand, Wilson’s only got one eye. Foggy’s already at a deficit.

“I’m a lawyer. I’ve had many weapons pointed at me — people are angry with me all of the time, especially if they don’t like the outcome of a trial.” Foggy swallows, hand beginning to shake where it’s tightly steepled with his other one. He wants to dart out, knock the gun from Wilson’s grip like he’s seen on NCIS a million times, but he can’t move a muscle, and Wilson looks like that would probably make him pretty fucking angry, so he continues to sit still. “What has Murdock gotten himself into?” Foggy asks quietly, like a friend who didn’t know anything about his best friend being a vigilante would do. He licks his lips and darts his eyes back and forth worriedly, all of those days in theatre club finally coming to good use. Wilson doesn’t know that Foggy knows. Can’t know. Even Foggy still wakes up after a long nights sleep and has to remember that it’s real — that not everything is normal and they’re not just best friends and lawyers anymore. That there’s so much water under the bridge that it laps at their ankles every day.

“We don’t have to resort to violence, Mr. Wilson,” he says somewhat shakily, “You seem like a very smart man. Whatever it is, we can talk about it. You’ve got confidentiality in this room.” He urges, shoulders more tense than he’s ever felt them in his life. The flashback of Matt, bleeding in his arms, laying his bloodied body into Foggy’s lap and readying himself to die there, hits him harder than any of Wilson’s bullets ever could. He would protect Matt with his life, he thinks.

SLADE: A bark of laughter, at that. Despite the situation, Nelson's got a hell of a sense of humor. It ain't gonna stop Slade from doing what he needs to do, but it's a point in the man's favor anyway. "Maybe not," he replies easily, screwing the suppressor onto the end of the gun with all the ease of a trained killer. He doesn't even need to look, gaze instead focused on Foggy. On the way the man's eyes cut toward his bag, the way his hands are beginning to tremble, the way his shoulders have gone stiff and his Adam's apple bobs as he eyes the gun.

There's the fear.

"That's a question for you to ask him. Suffice to say he isn't associating with safe people. You don't get a man like me going on personal jobs by accident. But I ain't here to talk. I am a smart man, but I'm a man of action. Always have been." He draws back the hammer of his gun, and there's a click as the firing pin draws back.

He turns the gun to level it squarely at the space between Foggy's eyes, perfectly aimed despite what should be a handicap without the benefit of two eyes. "No matter how good or bad a shot I may be, Mr. Nelson, there's no missing this close. But you've been entertaining, so I'll tell you what: I'll get you involved, give you a bit of fair choice. Right or left?"

FOGGY: Foggy feels too focused. Almost unfocused at how unbelievable this entire situation is. He’s stayed out of it. He’s followed all of the rules and still bad things happen to him. (Maybe this is why Matt just breaks them.) Licking his lips once more, Foggy’s mind begins to race at what right or left could mean. Is Wilson going to shoot him on the right side of the chest? The left? Shoot a leg? An arm? His right or Wilson’s right?

“Right.” He prays, silently, though he’s never been a religious man. The Nelsons went to church of course, but once grandma died, Foggy stopped going without the expectation. But he prays. Like he’s fifteen again and he feels like the weight of the world is on his shoulders, not knowing what he knows now as a thirty-something year old man. Now that he’s got the weight of a gun pointed at his head. “You have to have some sort of bargaining chip,” Foggy pleads, sweat beading at his brow. Wilson could shoot his eye out. Could shoot him in the heart.

SLADE: That's a pleasant surprise. He'd expected the man to beg, expected to have to ask twice to get a real answer. But Nelson's smarter than that, can clearly tell that Slade isn't the type to change his mind once it's been made up. So the answer comes first, then the plea.

"Bargaining chip? 'fraid not--this isn't a bargain. This is a statement." Slade lowers the gun, leveling it at Foggy's upper arm, and squeezes the trigger home in one fluid movement.

Glass on the desk behind Foggy shatters as the bullet goes clean through, and the shout of pain doesn't even earn a batted eye as Slade pushes himself up out of the chair, gun still in hand. His free hand curls around the back of the man's neck, gun pressed to the man's knee.

"Shh. Breathe through it. Pressure on the wound. I'd stay seated, if I were you--laying down will make you bleed out faster. Now that that unpleasantness is out of the way, I need you to pay close attention. Are you listening?"

FOGGY: The burning in his arm outweighed the queasiness he felt in his stomach. The rolling anxiety that filtered up through his chest and prickled where Wilson’s hands held him up. He remembers this pain. Remembers how he felt sluggish and exhausted, nearly bleeding out on the ground the first time. Remembered how good it felt to have Matt worry about him for once. Now, there is no Matt. No Karen. No Jessica. Just the man who shot him. The man who was cradling him as the blood rushes passed his ears, whispering things to Foggy that he can’t hear passed the chattering of his teeth. His large fingers press into his wound and he lets out a loud keen, followed by a whimper.

He’s going to die here. On the floor of this shit office where he’s just temporarily staying. Foggy’s never gonna get his deposit back —

Matt’s not coming back for him. The panic stays with him, and he feels the tremors of shock run through him as he practically vibrates in Wilson’s arms, “What—“ he croaks, and his voice sounds strained, even to his own ears, and he’s twitching. Matt’s not coming. He’s not here. “What—“ he repeats, and he’s trying to listen. Trying so hard. “Matt,” he says softly, the wetness on his cheeks dripping down his neck and pooping on the collar of his newly stained dress shirt.

SLADE: Yeah, no. Nelson seems to be glassing over already, barely able to keep a handle on what little Slade's already said, let alone whatever he's going to say next.

Damn.

"Oh, isn't that sweet," Slade sighs, and reaches around Foggy instead to grab a pen off the desk, a scrap of paper that's probably important. Not as important as it's about to be.

He scrawls down the note, sets it on Foggy's lap. "There ya go. You just hang on to that for me, there's a good man." He reaches his hand down to Foggy's briefcase, rifles through until his hand closes on the man's cell phone. He pops the battery out and tucks it into his jacket so the man can't call, and for good measure, shoots the desk phone, too.

"Let's see how lucky you are today, Mr. Nelson. Don't worry, I'll even leave the door unbolted--something tells me you won't mind your lunch break being further interrupted, hm? Good luck, kid."

And with that, he's gone, leaving a bleeding-out Foggy Nelson hunched in his chair and three simple words on the paper on his lap.

I warned you.