Chapter Text
"Matt, I love you," Foggy says after pushing aside the syrup-laden plate. They're at his kitchen table, and the smell — and, for Matt, no doubt the taste — of pancakes lingers in the air. Matt had insisted on the pancakes as a thank you gift for Foggy patching some fresh Daredevil-related wounds at 3AM. They’d fallen asleep together on the couch amid scattered bandage wrappers and, as usual, Matt woke up first.
"And not just for the pancakes," Foggy clarifies, voice still scratchy from lack of sleep but tone yet grave, deeply earnest. "I love you and I think it's time you let yourself accept that."
Matt opens his mouth, and freezes. Matt shuts his mouth. He nods, stiffly. He closes his eyes. Foggy takes the moment to slide the plates, utensils, and other breakfast paraphernalia aside. Then he scoots his chair around closer to Matt and settles back, folding his hands across his chest to rest his forearms on the shelf of his belly. Foggy is all calm attentiveness despite the early morning hour.
"I know," Matt says, finally, like he's admitting something. "I've always known, I think. The beat of your pulse, the shifts in your breathing—"
"Matt," Foggy tries to interrupt, but Matt reaches out, laying a hand on top of Foggy's.
Matt’s words are soft, almost guilty. "The taste of your sweat going sweet—"
"'The taste of my—?'" Foggy's eyes go wide, then he shakes his head. "No, never mind that. That's not it, Matt. You're hearing me but you're not understanding me. So what if you’ve heard my heart skipping beats since day one? I find a lot of people attractive."
"Your breathing goes quick around me, and shallow. And your skin flushes warm, like whenever Marci would touch you. Your body goes open and relaxed, and your voice is lighter, almost like when you play with your little cousins. On the couch you fight sleep, feeling drowsy but staying awake because you want to enjoy the warmth with me a few minutes longer, like every lazy, cuddly post-Thanksgiving food coma we fought off in your parents' living room since freshman year.
"Your body shows its love for me in a million small ways, Foggy. I know this is attraction. You've reacted like this to me for years. It's not some passing crush.”
"No," Foggy agrees, "No, it's definitely not."
"Then why are you saying I don't understand? What are you so convinced I'm reading wrong?"
"I'm saying," Foggy says gently, rotating his hand upward to interlace their fingers with a squeeze, "I love *you.*" Their joined hands rest over Foggy's heart, steady and beating true, true, true.
Foggy may not have Matt's hearing, or his sense of balance, or his super-sniffer, but he's been close to Matt for a long, long time, and can read him pretty well. When Matt goes still like this, keeping a careful rein on his reactions, it means his beautiful brain is clicking along at top speed, fully engaged. He's reconsidering, Foggy knows, re-evaluating. He's taking Foggy's words and respecting Foggy’s urge to understand the weight of them, to really *see*.
But Foggy also knows that Matt's whole life has ingrained his defense mechanisms to throw a protective halt on these particular, poorly-used gears, so he pushes them along a bit. "I love you, Matt. I may be afraid of what the Devil will do to you, yes. But I know and accept that he's a part of you."
Matt opens his mouth, shuts it. He swallows, takes a fortifying breath. "And... and the... the rage?" He asks, tentatively. His head is angled down, an old and useless instinct to avoid eye contact.
Foggy reaches over with his free hand, tilting Matt's face up toward him with a gentle touch. "It's not rage at people, Matt. It's rage at what they do. It's rage at a broken system. It's wanting humanity to be better. I left L & Z with you because of that anger. That anger makes me a better person every day."
"No!" Matt barks, jerking forward, frantic.
Foggy squeezes Matt’s hand, gentling points of contact. "Shh..." he whispers, rubbing his thumb across Matt’s battered knuckles. "I love you, Matt. All of you. Sure, the extent of your senses may sometimes surprise me, but that's just little things. You might think you're still hiding something, but I'm pretty sure I've got the important parts now. And I can learn. I'm not Catholic, but I'm starting to pray.
Matt frowns more deeply. "Yeah?"
Foggy nods. "Now and again. On the late nights."
Matt winces, a slow-motion cringe that pulls the corners of his face in on itself.
"Hey, no," Foggy soothes, stroking his thumb along Matt's bruised cheek.
At the touch, Matt’s shoulders tense and then his facial expression goes slack and stony. His chest heaves in a cycle of short, sharp inhalation and exhalation. His eyes jerk side-to-side, tracking sounds Foggy can only imagine.
"Hey," Foggy says sharply. "Stop that. Whatever Fisk or Stick or Elektra or Castle or whichever boogeymen who whispered in your ear as a kid told you, they were wrong. They don't understand the strength of your heart; whatever they told you was just empty words for the empty robot they thought you were, but you are NOT. I see you, Matt," he says, "and I. Love. *you*."
Matt's face relaxes by slow increments as Foggy continues making calm, quiet shushing noises, watching him carefully. "Stop replaying their words," Foggy says, stroking Matt gently. "Listen to mine."
Matt leans his head into Foggy's cupped hand and lets out a shuddering sigh.
"You use my heart to block out what's in your own head sometimes, don't you?" Foggy asks, quietly.
Matt nods, still saying nothing. Foggy smiles, genuine. "I'm smiling," he says.
"But..." Matt trails off, uncertain.
"I'm smiling, Matty, because I love that I can do something for you. Especially something like this. So listen up. Now, and whenever you need to, okay? I mean it."
Matt nods again, slowly, like he's finally coming to an understanding in his mind. An acceptance. After a shared breath he says, "You mean it. You love... me." He finishes, tone awed.
"I do." Foggy says softly, stroking a gentle hand on Matt’s cheek.
Matt hums contentedly and presses their joined hands into the warmth of Foggy's chest.
"I don't share my grandfather's pancake recipe with just anyone, Murdock," Foggy says around a tender smile. "And I know you love me."
"I do," Matt says, earnest and breathless and stunningly beautiful under a mop of sweaty helmet hair, "You love me," he swallows, "and I love you. I really, really do."
Monochrome digital drawing in orange tones and highlights. A side view of Matt Murdock and Foggy Nelson pictured from the shoulders up, face to face and close to each other. Foggy, wearing a striped pajama shirt, lifts a hand to cup Matt’s cheek. He is watching Matt’s lips with hooded eyes. Matt’s head is tilted into Foggy’s hand and his eyes are closed beneath tense eyebrows. Both men have somewhat messy, tousled hair. A gentle shadow falls over them, and the entire piece feels soft and intimate.
Art by onemagpie.
