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Chapter Text

Matt pursues his law degree with the same kind of single-mindedness he does everything else. This is how he functions in a world where his fifth sense was wiped and replaced by some SciFi sixth. A sixth that turned the other four into a disharmonious orchestra conducted by third graders. Without a directive, he would get lost in the chaotic echoes.

He had years to grow accustomed to the daily routines of the Catholic boarding school. He knew the scent of freshly clipped grass, accompanied by the whisper of morning prayer. He was at home amongst creaks of wooden chairs and desks aged by generations of use, and was familiar with the growling stomachs of fellow students, antsy for the shrill lunch bell to signify that Sister Greenwich’s afternoon meal had been prepared. Summer evenings were a pattern of singing cicadas, alternating their syncopated rhythms across the school yard’s eleven oak trees. Winter nights were accompanied by incense and soft holiday singing, juxtaposed by an untamable excitement that had his fellow students’ heartbeats elevated and their skin slightly flushed.

Stepping past the threshold into Columbia’s Dormitory B is nearly a flashback to that first moment he had opened his unseeing eyes and been bombarded by an endless onslaught of unadulterated noise . It batters against him like an angry tidalwave, his only option in this fight-or-flight scenario to endure and survive. He leans against the nearest vending machine, soaking in the slight vibrations of whirring electronics against his back, appearing calm if it weren’t for his white-knuckled grip around his cane. He lets the buzz wash over him like a palate cleanser as he waits for bustling activity of move-in day to settle to a dull roar.

He takes a deep breath, composes himself, and heads to room 312 to forge a new beginning.

“Hey, do you know a good place to get a cup of coffee on campus?”

“No.”

“Well lucky for you, I do.”

The cafe is small, but busy. Matt navigates the room with more confidence than he feels, concentrating on narrowing his focus to his direct vicinity. He mentally tags Foggy by the squeak of his sneakers—obviously a new purchase, still stiff and relatively clean. Foggy seems to make an effort to walk an arm’s length from Matt’s side, keeping his head down to watch the wide sweeps of Matt’s cane.

“There are a couple of people ahead of us in line, so I think I have time to read the menu to you if you want,” Foggy offers, “Or I can describe the appearances of our lovely local co-eds.”

Matt offers a smile and says, “I think the menu is more appropriate at the moment.”

After they’re seated and Foggy has removed the crumbs from the table with his shirt sleeve, Matt finally takes a drink. He can recognize the brand of the green tea he ordered by the flavor, and knows it was overpriced by about three dollars. However, he chooses not to voice this to Foggy who is already raving about the quality of the establishment’s caramel frappuccinos.

“Okay, so I know scientifically that green tea is supposed to be full of like, ginseng and antioxidants and onomonopias, but see, this has syrup , Murdock. Which is delicious, and therefore much better for you. So take that, science!”

Matt gives a sudden, startled laugh. Foggy immediately gasps and points his hand in response, slapping his other palm down on the table so that Matt’s green tea sloshes over the brim of his cup.

“Wait,” Foggy says, “I know we just got here, but do you mind if I make a phone call? And put it on speakerphone? I need to call my family and tell them that someone thinks I’m funny.”

Matt can’t help but offer another boyish giggle, to which Foggy seems to inflate even more.

Foggy continues, “Maybe I should dial, like right now, so they can hear this. Nothing stands up in court like hard evidence.”

His voice is loud, laced with enthusiasm. Matt can feel the reverberations of Foggy’s speech through the table they share, and it anchors him to the moment. He is able to ignore the scents of deodorants, shampoos, and summer sweat intermingling in the air around them, making the room seem more crowded than it is.

It’s dark outside by the time they finish talking, cups long empty.

Law school at Columbia is an educational experience in more than just the predictable areas. It is a lesson in adaptation, interpersonal effectiveness, tolerance, and acceptance. In the same way that Matt’s social awkwardness tends to endear himself to hot co-eds with a bleeding heart for the blind, he occasionally finds himself floundering in social situations which leave his roommate sighing in feigned bemusement.

“You, my new blind friend, have a lot to learn,” Foggy says, throwing his arm over Matt’s shoulder, shaking him firmly in a way that is growing increasingly familiar. If it weren’t for his...unusual senses, Matt wonders how frequently he’d be blindsided by such casual manhandling. “Telling a new acquaintance that you can tell he shops at the GAP based on the smell of his T-shirt—while both amusing and impressive—is not immediately endearing.”

Matt belatedly realizes his mistake in over sharing his abilities, blames the beer, and adds a bit defensively, “I...spend a lot of time at the GAP. I was just trying to make conversation, Foggy,” and forcibly lets himself to relax in the larger man’s embrace.

“And you succeeded! Temporarily,” Foggy allows. “But let’s take that small talk topic out of the suggestion box and throw it in the garbage, okay buddy?”

Matt purses his lips in mild offense, but concedes.

“Dude! You really do have eyeballs!” Foggy shouts one evening.

Matt is so caught off-guard by this remark that he drops his glasses on the unevenly-carpeted floor instead of in their case.

“Foggy, I thought we established this within three minutes of meeting each other.”

“I’ve just never seen you without your glasses on. You always take them off after I go to bed and put them back on before I wake up. I was beginning to wonder if you were secretly like Cyclops from X-Men and you’d vaporize the entire city block if you didn’t have your magic sunglasses on.”

Matt’s pulse picks up a little bit at the mention of superpowers, but his voice comes out evenly. “They’re not magic. Professor Xavier engineered them, I think.”

“Not the point here, Matt!” Foggy insists, “Just. They’re nice.”

“Ah...thanks. I got them at Sunglass Hut.”

“Not the sunglasses, you nerd! Keep up! I’m trying to pay you a compliment. You may be the beauty in this operation Murdock, but I am definitely the brains.”

“Noted,” Matt replies, a crooked smile on his face, warmth blooming in his chest.

The pattern of Foggy guiding Matt with a firm, but gentle hand from place to place begins with a cold. As the sweltering summer heat eases into an unsteady truce with autumn wind, Matt unfortunately finds himself at odds with his super-senses’ worst enemy: sinus congestion.

His balance is affected by fluid build-up, and the resulting pressure in his ears. Matt, who at this point has not yet put on the mask, can’t help but muse that a Murdock with congestion would be utterly useless in whatever ancient bullshit war his old mentor had persistently rambled about.

So, as Matt one morning wakes to the sound of his 6:30 alarm and discovers he can’t find the snooze button, he immediately knows he is off to a bad start. Foggy looks on in startled confusion as his normally well put-together roommate gives up and swipes his nightstand clean. The alarm clock and its offensive noises are silenced upon crashing to the floor—and though Matt is sure he will later regret letting his various knickknacks roll beneath the bed, at the moment he finds he couldn’t care less.

“Jeeze, Matt,” Foggy grumbles sleepily, “I would ask if you woke up on the wrong side of the bed, but that’s difficult to do on a twin.”

Matt, who is unaccustomed to complaining about his ails, just replies with a vague, mucousy groan.

Throughout the morning, he manages to put his sweatshirt on backward, walk into the doorframe, and then proceed to trip over his own cane. Foggy lets out a fond, yet exasperated sigh at Matt’s unintentional display of the worst slapstick comedy he’s ever seen.

“You know, buddy, as much as you hate to be treated like an invalid—and as much as I know that you’re typically as graceful as a bounding gazelle—I think I should put both of us out of our misery and offer to be your guide today. This is an exclusive, once in a lifetime offer that many ladies and gentlemen alike are clamoring for. But you, you lucky dog, are today’s winner.”

Matt offers a tired grin in response and unsteadily gropes at what he thinks is likely Foggy’s offered elbow.

“Matt, I know I’ve got abs of steel that could easily be mistaken for a well-chiseled arm, but you’re a little off the mark.”

Despite having little experience, Foggy is actually good at being Matt’s guide for the next few days as he rides out his illness. And when, despite Foggy’s insistence that Nelsons never get ill, Foggy falls victim to the same cold only days later, Matt is able to repay the favor in his own way, cooking chicken-flavored ramen noodles in hopes that it will offer the same healing effects as homemade chicken noodle soup. (It doesn’t.)

Once Matt’s sinuses clear and his equilibrium returns, he could refuse Foggy’s offered elbow. But Matt finds himself reassured by the feel of the other man’s body heat, even through the scratchy polyester-blend sweater. His fingertips locate the inseam of Foggy’s sleeve, a routine that grows more familiar each day. He finds the scent of Foggy’s fabric softener surprisingly comforting, the gentle scent growing in intensity when the man fidgets. Matt doesn’t know what to do with this new information, this new fondness, but files it away with the rest of the growing reams of things he likes about Foggy Nelson.

Chapter Text

It happens like this:

“You...you asshole!” Foggy splutters. Muddy alley water flies from his lips and hits Matt square in the cheek. Not like it makes a difference. They’re both already coated in a thin layer of grime from the scuffle, a disgusting marriage of fluids that have leaked from the garbage bags lining the alleyway. Matt can smell week-old orange chicken, polystyrene, and dirty diapers in the mix.

Matt’s eyebrows fly up in affront. “Sorry?”

“What the hell was that, man? And don’t tell me that was some adrenaline-fueled moment of super strength like when a mom saves a baby from getting crushed by a car! You dodged a bullet, Murdock! Literally! And then you knocked that guy out with his own gun by ricocheting it off the dumpster! ”

Foggy gestures wildly at the unconscious man at the lip of the alley. After Matt had ejected both the magazine and the remaining bullet from the chamber, the mugger had turned tail and ran. And Matt wasn’t about to let the man get away with trying to hurt Foggy.

“Can we maybe pass that off as dumb luck and coincidence?” Matt asks with a wince.

“Oh no, buddy. We’re miles passed plausible deniability at this point. I want to know exactly what the hell just happened, and how you suddenly turned into Neo right out of the Matrix!” Foggy yells, pitch skyrocketing in near hysteria.

Matt offers a crooked grin and says, “Haven’t seen it,” which just riles up Foggy a little bit more.

“Start explaining. Now, Matt.” Foggy demands, and clears the hysteria from his throat. Matt can hear Foggy’s pulse thrumming in his veins. His entire body is trembling with the intensity of it. Matt doesn’t know how much of it is fear lingering after the encounter, and how much is anger-based adrenaline.

“I will. I promise. But someone inside the bar is on the phone with the police right now reporting gunfire, and I can’t let them see me. Just...tell them that a man in a black mask rescued you or something, okay?” Not waiting for a response, Matt lithely scales the wall and rebounds off of it with a kick, landing on the adjacent fire-escape of a neighboring apartment complex, his tie flapping in the wind.

“No! Not okay!” Foggy yells after him.

Despite Foggy’s disapproval, Matt knows his best friend won’t say anything to the police about what happened. Even so, Matt lingers on a nearby roof, listening as Foggy recounts a fantastical tale of a black-masked vigilante swooping down from the rooftop to rescue him. The way Foggy describes the event, he makes Matt sound more like Batman than a blind college student in a business suit he purchased from the Goodwill for a meeting with the scholarship committee.

Two hours later, after a bedraggled Foggy has returned from both making his police statement and taking the most thorough shower of his life, they begin their talk.

Matt fumbles with his black glasses while Foggy asks questions, rubbing a calloused thumb over the lenses, removed so Foggy could see the honesty in his expression. The left lens is cracked, and the polycarbonate feels like snake scales beneath his fingertips.

Matt hesitantly explains how his heightened senses work, reacting to each of Foggy’s skeptical and outraged interruptions with patience and humility.

“I’m a freak,” Matt quietly concludes, “I understand if you don’t want to be friends anymore. I can ask for a room change. Cite disability reasons.”

Foggy stops his erratic pacing to sit on the edge of his mattress, mirroring Matt’s position. Matt can hear his elevated pulse begin to even out as Foggy takes measured breaths—too exact to not be an intentional attempt at calming down. Foggy rakes his shaking fingers through long hair, still damp from the shower. Matt can make out the scent of dollar store bar soap and shampoo, even beyond the stench of his own filth. He stripped down to his undershirt and boxers while Foggy showered, but grime still clings to his skin.

“Yeah,” Foggy finally replies, “You are definitely some kind of freak of nature… But you’re my freak of nature, and you’re not going anywhere. Besides, it’s kinda cool having a superhero for a roommate.”

Matt blinks in surprise. It takes him a moment to process Foggy’s acceptance. “I’m not a superhero,” he says.

“Not yet,” Foggy replies. His heart rate starts to climb again, but this time out of enthusiasm. "You might have saved my life tonight, Matt. Think of how many people you could help with your freaky World-on-Fire magic!”

“Foggy,” Matt protests, and pinches the bridge of his nose in a show of exhaustion. “I am not becoming a superhero.”

The first time Matt goes out in the black mask, he returns with a major nosebleed. The elbow jab to the face he received thankfully wasn’t enough to break the delicate cartilage, but it had definitely burst a blood vessel or two.

“Dude!” Foggy exclaims upon walking in on Matt dabbing at the oozing blood with an old cotton T-shirt. “What the hell, man? Did you go digging for nasal gold with an actual pickaxe or something?”

“There’s gold up there?” Matt asks. He licks his chapped lips and immediately cringes at the flavor of the dried blood crusting on his cupid’s bow.

Foggy drags Matt to sit at his desk, and aims his lamp to shine at the blind man’s face. Matt can feel the heat from the quietly buzzing light bulb against his skin as Foggy prods at the swollen tissue of his nose with soft fingertips.

“I’d go with rubies at best by this point, buddy,” Foggy replies, and then adds, “It’s not broken, but you’re already bruising. Also I think you’re going to need a new excessively tight shirt to show off your muscles at the gym, because this one is covered in enough blood to make a serial killer jealous.”

“We were out of tissues,” Matt replies defensively, “Also it isn’t excessively tight.”

“Buddy, if I can see your nipples when it’s not even cold, it’s excessive.”

Matt offers a slight grimace and a shrug at Foggy’s accurate logic.

Changing the subject, Foggy asks, “Can you tell me what actually caused this? I need to know who I have to beat up for hitting my best friend.”

Matt chuckles and replies, “Foggy, we both knew this would happen when I decided to—quote— ‘play dress-up and hurt scumbags on the weekends.’ ”

“Yes my friend, but today is a Tuesday. All bets are off on weekdays. Besides, the sidekick has to get at least a little action.”

“You’re my sidekick now?” Matt asks skeptically. Foggy is not weak per se, but Matt can’t imagine the big-hearted man inflicting physical harm on anyone. Verbal assaults in the courtroom on the other hand, definitely.

“Well, somebody’s gotta do it. And unless you have another secret best friend I should know about, I think I’m the default winner of that contest,” Foggy argues.

“What’s your sidekick name then?” Matt asks with a smirk, “The school paper is calling me Daredevil.”

“Which is lame ,” Foggy insists, not for the first time, “And my name would be Mister Handsome. Or Captain Gorgeous. Something along those lines. I haven’t figured it out quite yet.”

“Uh huh,” Matt replies.

Sidekick, Matt thinks. Then he shakes his head. Partner.

Chapter Text

“This is it,” Matt says, and the door swings shut behind them.

Foggy squints into the darkness of Fogwell’s Gym, where he can make out the shadowy shapes of equipment. Maybe it’s because he’s spent so much time with Matt, but somehow he can sense that the gym is small, intimate. There’s no echo of their feet on the ground, and the scent of old sweat and leather is stagnant, like it has nowhere to escape. The smell has its own physical presence, like a permanent fixture.

“It’s great! I can’t see a thing, buddy. Where’s the light switch?” he asks, and fumbles for the nearest wall. His fingers brush against peeling paper and he takes a step back, unwilling to risk damaging anything.

He hears Matt flick a switch, and the lights overhead wake slowly with a flicker and a faint electronic whine.

“Sorry,” Matt says, and appears at least a little embarrassed, “I haven’t been here with anyone else since I was ten. I forgot about the lights.”

There’s a ring in the center of the room that provides Foggy with vague memories of junior high wrestling club—or more accurately, the disappointment he felt when he realized they would be using foam floor mats instead of rebounding off the ring ropes, and wearing leotards and jockstraps instead of cool costumes.

“You started kicking ass when you were ten?” Foggy asks, eyes trailing over the lockers and various posters lining the walls. “No wonder you’re so ripped.”

Matt lets out a quiet huff of laughter and shakes his head. “No, I used to sit at that table over there and do my homework while my dad sparred. I didn’t come back here until I was a teenager.”

“Rebelling against the nuns?” Foggy asks casually, and runs his fingers against the thick ropes lining the ring.

Matt offers a lopsided smile and says, “Something like that.”

“What about that other blind guy you talked about before?” Foggy asks.

Matt falls silent for a moment like he does in mock trial when he’s perfecting his word choices. The hum of the overhead lights fills the quiet. “Those lessons were...elsewhere.”

Foggy just nods, accepting Matt’s vague explanation for the time being. He chooses to picture the basement from Fight Club .

Matt drops his gym bag on a nearby bench and begins to pull out various objects; a roll of boxing tape, a water bottle, a towel. Foggy copies him and begins to pull out his own training gear.

“What are you doing?” Matt asks, tilting his head curiously as he tries to identify Foggy’s materials.

“I’m putting on elbow and kneepads, dude,” Foggy says, “I need these joints to last me through my later years, you know.”

Matt appears to contemplate this for a moment, and Foggy half expects him to say something about how they’ll slow him down, or that Foggy won’t be wearing them in a real fight. So he’s surprised when Matt replies, “That’s a good idea.”

(Next time Matt goes out in costume, Foggy will notice the new inclusion of elbow and kneepads, and shin and wrist guards. He will also give himself a pat on the back.)

“In your case,” Matt begins, “Your first line of defense will be your voice and your posture. You’re not an attacker’s primary target. You’re a large male, and you keep your head up when you’re walking.”

“Hey, I’m not that large,” Foggy protests, “I’ve been cutting back on the confections.”

Matt ignores him, opting to pace back and forth as he speaks. “However; when you feel threatened, your voice wavers. You offer platitudes. That’s where your defense falls short. It works great if you accidentally bump into some musclehead at a bar and spill his beer. It’s not great if you find yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“It kinda makes me nervous that you notice all this stuff,” Foggy mutters under his breath. “So what am I supposed to do, sensei?”

“Straighten up, use your core, and shout.”

Foggy blinks in surprise. “What? We came to a boxing ring so you could tell me to scream when I’m scared?”

Matt laughs and shakes his head. “Think of it as the Bat Signal you always joke about. But if I don’t hear you, you need your opponent to know that you’re not going down without a fight. That instantly makes you a less attractive target.”

“Pfft,” Foggy scoffs, “I’m always attractive.”

“Even the blind agree,” Matt concedes with a devilish smirk, looking all too confident in his element, "Which is all the more reason to learn."

Foggy’s face burns. He clears his throat and asks, “So when do I get to karate chop people in the throat?”

Matt teaches Foggy a few basic techniques—none of which turns out to be karate chopping people in the throat. He does learn how make an unyielding shield with his forearms, that his thumbs belong nowhere near the fray, and that hitting Matt feels like hitting a brick wall.

“Your form is pretty good,” Matt says when they’re done, “But you have a habit of pulling back before you do any real damage.”

Foggy lets Matt unwind the boxing tape from his hands for him, the movements smooth and practiced. They are both slick with sweat, Foggy’s shirt sticking to his back, and Matt’s forehead shining with a crown of perspiration. Foggy thinks Matt’s state of dishevelment is more due to the lack of A/C than actual physical exertion, unlike him.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Foggy says honestly, and then adds, “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

Matt nods, and begins to unwrap his other hand, calloused fingers gently brushing against the skin of his forearms and wrists. Matt’s knuckles are a mismatch of rough skin and fading bruises, and Foggy wonders how much force needs to go behind a punch before your own knuckles split.

“Foggy,” Matt says, just holding Foggy’s hand once the wraps are discarded on the bench beside him. His expression is serious, his grip firm. “There is a difference between self-defense and violence. You’re not a violent person. You’re not like me. But if it’s between you and another person, I want you to be the one who comes out on top. You have to be.”

Foggy, surprised by the urgency in his friend’s tone, turns his hand to accept Matt’s. He gives it a tight, reassuring squeeze.

“Okay,” Foggy says quietly. “I will.”

Chapter Text

“The worst part isn’t even that they’re slacking off—I think everyone learns that group projects are bullshit by the time they’ve graduated elementary school.” Foggy rants exhaustedly to Matt as they approach their dorm room, “They’re just so unfriendly! They don’t laugh at any of my jokes, even though I’m pulling out some of my prime material-”

Foggy breaks off mid-sentence, room key in hand as he pauses to look at some card that has been taped to their door. Matt would attribute the sudden lull to minor distraction if it weren’t for the sudden surprised intake of breath and stuttering heartbeat.

“...Foggy?” Matt prompts, and despite knowing the answer, asks, “Did you forget your key again?”

Foggy clears his throat and gives an awkward laugh. “They’re putting on a show of  Top Gun  down in the North Courtyard as part of stress-busters for finals.”

Whatever Matt was expecting, it wasn’t that. “Oh...Do you want to go?”

Foggy’s somatic response is unusual, and Matt can’t help but tilt his head and examine it further. His heartbeat is doing some kind of fluttery thing, and if the heat radiating from the man’s face indicates anything, he seems to be  blushing .

“Well, we are Maverick and Goose, right? Minus the dying and the marriage and all that, since you’re such a stickler for details,” Foggy says, “So I think we might be morally obligated, right?”

Matt knows what Foggy isn’t asking—if the blind man wants to go watch a movie—and puts Foggy out of his misery. “Well, we are men of high moral character. I’ll fill the thermos and you get the blankets?”

Foggy’s answering grin is like literal sunshine, radiating a warm summer yellow in Matt’s World on Fire. Sometimes, Matt wonders if Foggy  is  the fire, and everything else is just reflecting and refracting his light.

“You know, things like your freaking cashmere scarf are why we’re drinking microwaved Nesquik instead of Godiva,” Foggy points out as he lays out their ratty quilt on an exposed patch of grass.

Foggy has a frequently voiced theory that Columbia’s lawns are composed entirely of astroturf, because how else could they stay so perfectly green during the winter? Matt agrees that the concept is suspicious, but he can smell the chlorophyll as it’s trampled beneath the shoes of other moviegoers around them.

“You gave me this scarf,” Matt protests, and hands Foggy the thermos so he can fold up his cane.

“Exactly! If I wasn’t such a kindhearted person, we could be living in luxury right now,” Foggy insists, and flops down on the blanket with an exaggerated sigh.

Matt shakes his head with quiet laughter and sits more gracefully by his side. “I promise counselor, once we have our own successful law firm, we can get all the Godiva you want.”

Foggy pretends to ponder this for a moment, and then concedes. “Alright. I’ll hold you to that. For now, we’ll just have to rough it.”

The lawn around them is covered in a patchwork of quilts and blankets, topped with friend groups and couples waiting for the film to start. The entire courtyard is a polyphonous mismatch of voices that chatter amongst each other. Matt can hear the couple behind them ease into the early stages of dirty talk, much to his discomfort.

“Sounds like there are a lot of people here tonight. I didn’t know that  Top Gun  was such a popular date night flick,” Matt says over the noise.

Foggy unscrews the cap of the thermos and takes a deep gulp of the hot cocoa inside. He wipes the drink from his lips and passes the thermos to Matt. “A free movie is a free movie, man. Besides, if there’s a love scene, it’s basically a romance.”

Matt takes a sip of the drink, and the flavor Foggy’s mouth lingers on the rim of the thermos. Matt finds himself licking his lips before he hands it back. “I think the effect would be lost on me without the visuals. You’ll have to describe it.”

He realizes a bit belatedly that that’s a line he would normally save for a date, and ducks down into his scarf in embarrassment. Foggy makes a slight choking noise at the same time as the girl behind them whispers,  “Oh yeah? And then what are you going to do to me?”

“Well, I have been practicing waxing my poeticals,” Foggy says, effectively drowning out whatever the guy behind them plans on doing, to Matt’s infinite relief. “I was never one for Shakespeare, but I am digging Kanye’s newest hit.”

Matt’s eyebrows lift. “I never would have guessed. It’s not like you’ve been listening to that song thirty times a day for the past week or anything.”

Foggy uses one hand to flip Matt off and the other to take a long swig from the thermos. His lips separate from the bottle with an audible pop, and he says, “Oh. Right. I’m flipping you the bird right now, buddy.”

Matt laughs and says, “Now,  that’s  the kind of commentary I’m looking for.”

Matt has childhood memories—muddied and faded by a lifetime of sightlessness—of watching this film with his father one night. It must have been a celebration of some sort, because Dad let him eat in front of the TV for once. Maybe Jack had actually won a fight.

Matt can’t remember Maverick’s face, or whether Charlie was a blonde or brunette. He remembers Dad sniffling during Goose’s death, the way he tried to blink away tears and rub discreetly at his face so Matt wouldn’t notice. Matt, who had so rarely seen his father cry (and never would again), had been more interested in watching the flashing lights from the television flicker across his father’s face. Matt wonders if maybe this is why he remembers this film more vividly than others.

“..and I just don’t want anyone to know that I’ve fallen for you,”  Charlie confesses.

Berlin’s  Take My Breath Away  increases in volume, and Matt hears a collective “Aww,” from the audience as Charlie and Maverick presumably kiss.

The couple behind Matt and Foggy seems to take this as their cue to begin a makeout session. Matt leans against Foggy enough to bump their shoulders together and murmurs, “I’m waiting.”

Foggy jolts to attention, and looks around in confusion at the various canoodling couples for a hint. Matt can sense the man’s confusion in his increasing heart rate and the heat rushing to the back of his neck. Matt can’t help but chuckle a bit before elaborating, “I’m waiting for my poetic commentary.”

Foggy lets out a sudden bark of laughter, and then repositions himself so he can more covertly whisper to Matt. Matt can feel Foggy’s hot breath against his winter-numbed ear, can smell the lingering scent of chocolate powder mix in the air. He attributes the shiver that goes down his spine to the cold.

“Okay, well to set the scene, they’re in this kinda blue monochrome living room area. And he’s just wearing pants, and she’s wearing what might be his shirt? It’s kind of confusing,” Foggy explains stiltedly, his attempts at quiet still kind of loud.

Matt nods and says, “The scene has been set.”

Foggy takes this as encouragement to continue. “Okay, well I guess they’re kissing? It’s more like their mouths are open and they’re just taking turns poking their tongues out. Maybe this is how it’s done in Hollywood.”

“Could be,” Matt affirms, “California is a different world, from what I’ve heard.”

Foggy says, “Oh! They’re horizontal now. I don’t know where they landed exactly, because they were standing dramatically in front of a window between the couch and the arm chair.”

“There’s probably more room on the couch,” Matt offers sensibly.

“That’s true. Oh! She just licked his neck,” Foggy says, forgetting to whisper in his surprise. Matt can sense others in the vicinity turning their heads to look at them.

“Huh. Is that doing it for him?” Matt prompts in a slightly louder voice.

Foggy bursts into noisy laughter. “I don’t know, man! The scene ended. And guess who’s waking up alone!”

The couple behind them interjects with a loud  Shh!  that should maybe make Matt feel a little guilty instead of filling him with a pleasant hum. He and Foggy both attempt to offer apologies between their muffled giggles. Matt and Foggy both turn to tell each other something at the same time, and Matt stops short when he realizes how close they’ve wandered. Matt can feel Foggy’s breath against his own lips, can recall the flavor the other man’s mouth left on the thermos.

“Buddy, don’t even think about licking me right now,” Foggy whispers in mock seriousness, and the two burst into undignified giggles again. They both ease into a reclining position. Matt focuses on the sensation of familiar heat at his side, the blades of grass that stab into his spine through the thin, worn quilt, the music from the film washing over him. He imagines Foggy is looking at the stars. He wonders if there are any to see in the middle of the city.

“This was a good idea,” Matt says, surprised by how sincerely he means it. He squeezes his eyes shut more tightly, as if that would make a difference, and tries to preserve this moment. It doesn’t quite fit perfectly on the shelf next to the evening with his father. How does one commit a series of sounds and sensations to memory?

“Obviously,” Foggy replies, followed by a yawn, “I thought of it.”

Matt quips, “I didn’t know you were the student event coordinator.”

“I’m flipping you off again.”

“No you’re not.”

Chapter Text

The dorm is already half-empty (half-full?) by the time Foggy finally gets around to packing for winter break. He finds a nice playlist on Pandora to blast holiday tunes from his laptop while he tries to prioritize what to bring home.

He’s belting out White Christmas when Matt returns from grabbing some morning grub. There are snowflakes melting in his hair, windswept and mussed from the finicky weather, his nose and cheeks flushed pink from the temperature. He removes his coat, draping it over the back of his chair, and sets his glasses on his bedside table.

Matt has taken to removing his glasses when he gets back to the dorm room, and Foggy finds that his friend appears so much more expressive without them. They’ve spent enough time together that Foggy can read Matt based almost solely on his chiseled jaw and body language alone, but it’s nice to see the little crinkles that form around his hazel eyes when he smiles.

“I could hear you from all the way outside the dormitory,” Matt says laughingly, setting a small cup of coffee and a pastry bag on Foggy’s desk.

Foggy eagerly peers inside the bag, discovering an apple turnover within. He takes a bite and replies through a mouthful of decadent goodness, “Bing Crosby sounded like he could benefit from a more modern twist.”

Matt laughs and takes a delicate sip from his coffee. “Foggy, you don’t even know most of the lyrics.”

Foggy shrugs. “Artistic license.”

Matt snorts and takes a seat at his own desk. He pulls open the top drawer, pauses mid-motion. “Where’s my braille terminal?”

Foggy grins and goes back to choosing his favorite patterned socks. “I dunno, buddy. Maybe you left it at the library,” he suggests.

Matt raises his eyebrows in skepticism as he slides the drawer shut. “Remember the conversation we had awhile back about how I can tell when you’re lying?”

Foggy shrugs again, picking out a pair of ugly plaid socks Grammy got him for Christmas last year. “Don’t worry man, I packed it up safely. I wrapped it in one of your sweatshirts so it wouldn’t get scratched.”

Matt stands up slowly and moves to search their shared closet space. He runs his fingers over his side of the rack and finds the selection to be considerably lacking. Foggy can’t help but stifle a laugh at Matt’s expression of pure befuddlement.

“Foggy, where are my things?” Matt finally asks, expression settling into a pout that shouldn’t be adorable, but still pulls at Foggy’s heart.

“With my things, obviously!” he replies, gesturing to his suitcase. He tosses in the last of his selections with one hand, and takes a large bite out of the turnover with his other. Mouth full, he continues, “If we want to make it in time for Ma’s famous pot roast, we’re gonna have to blow this popsicle stand soon. Our flight leaves in two hours.”

“Flight?” Matt asks, looking even more bewildered than the time Foggy and Adam hid all of his furniture in the dorm room across the hall.

“You’re celebrating a Nelson Christmas, Murdock! Grab that present you’ve been hiding under your bed since November and get a move on!”

Matt does not like airplanes, Foggy discovers a bit belatedly.

“It’s the air pressure,” Matt grumbles through clenched teeth, trying with all his might not to look like he’s about to hurl on the passenger seat in front of them.

Foggy’s accustomed to flying coach, having done so for various family vacations since childhood. Turbulence, crying babies, cramped quarters—all old news. He vaguely remembers feeling a bit weird his first time flying, but his stepmom had given him a piece of watermelon gum to chew on until his ears finally unpopped, and it had been fine.

“This is unnatural,” Matt continues, hands squeezing the armrest so tightly Foggy’s worried it’s going to snap right off, “The sound is bouncing all over the place with nowhere to go, so it just keeps ringing, and ringing, and ringing. There’s nothing outside. It’s like we’re…”

“Flying?” Foggy prompts, “Yeah, that would be because we are. And speak for yourself about unnatural, Mister Supersenses.”

Foggy searches through his pockets and comes up with one piece of watermelon gum, which he taps against the back of one of Matt’s clenched fists, veins standing out beneath pale skin.

Matt reluctantly releases the armrest, as if doing so might cause him to float away. He takes the piece of gum, warm and slightly melted from sitting in Foggy’s pocket all day, and curls his lip in mild disgust.

“Smells like fake watermelon and red dye #40,” Matt replies, “What am I supposed to do with this?”

Foggy rolls his eyes good-naturedly and pats Matt on his tightly wound shoulder. “Chew it, Murdock. It’ll make your ears feel better. As for everything else...well, just concentrate on me, okay? I’ll be your in-flight entertainment for the next two hours.”

Matt doesn’t verbally complain about the flavor of the gum, and Foggy doesn’t think he’s aware of the unhappy expression he’s projecting. Matt winds up holding Foggy’s arm the way he would if they were walking down the campus corridors, fingers rubbing nervously at the inseam of his sweater sleeve.

“So the main Nelson clan consists of Ma, Pa, my little sister Candace, and yours truly,” Foggy ticks off the four of them on his fingers, “Ma will probably fuss over you like a mother hen—I actually have a theory that she was one in a past life. Pa might ask you some vaguely inappropriate questions, but I think you’ll be able to handle yourself there with your fancy lawyer talk. Expect Candace to flirt. A lot.”

Matt nods, fidgeting in his seat, but no longer looks like a seasick sailor. “Vaguely inappropriate how?” he asks.

“Uh, like about your blindness. He can be super blunt, but he means well,” Foggy explains.

“Sounds like you,” Matt laughs shakily.

Foggy frowns in affront. “What? I’m the most appropriate guy I know!”

Matt shakes his head. “You’re the least appropriate person I know. You immediately made some reference to my eyeballs falling out of my head, then proceeded to enthuse over how my blindness would be a great asset in picking up women.”

Foggy makes an uneasy grin in response, unable to deny it. “Okay, fair enough. I can still taste toe cheese in my mouth five months later, if that helps.”

Matt offers a legitimate smile, albeit a small one. “It’s not a bad thing, actually. Your bluntness is one of the things I like about you.”

Foggy blushes and gives the hand Matt has wrapped around his bicep a fond pat. “That’s good buddy, ‘cause I don’t think I can turn it off. My brain to mouth filter would probably be rated a two out of five on Amazon.”

Matt offers a full laugh, the whites of his teeth showing. “I’ll give you a five out of five review in my buyer’s feedback.”

“Don’t go giving people false expectations, Murdock,” Foggy says, “Restocking fees can be a bitch.”

Matt snorts in response, settling a bit more comfortably by Foggy’s side. With his more relaxed posture, Matt’s right knee bumps against Foggy’s left. He doesn’t move it.

Matt looks hilarious wedged between the two small shihtzus on the Nelson family’s loveseat. He has an oversized fleece blanket thrown over his shoulders and a mug of hot apple cider in hand. Lila licks at the exposed skin of his wrist while Bonnie nudges his elbow with her nose.

“I feel like mother-henning was an understatement,” Matt says drily once Anna Nelson leaves the room.

Foggy grins, taking a deep gulp of his own cider, enjoying the hint of maple syrup and sprinkling of brown sugar that Ma is famous for. “Relax in the lap of luxury for once, Matt. Let yourself be henned. I know you Catholic types enjoy some good self-flagellation, but maybe save that for after the holidays.”

Foggy can recognize Matt’s aghast facial expression around his glasses and tries to stifle his laughter.

“Franklin!” Ma calls from the kitchen, “I could use some help in here!”

Matt begins to stand at the same time as Foggy, but Foggy halts him with a pointed finger. “Lap of luxury, Murdock. You stay put.”

Matt purses his lips and reluctantly returns to his seated position. Lila immediately makes herself comfortable in the blind man’s lap, as if to buckle him in. Foggy makes a mental note to sneak her some gristle later for helping his cause.

When he enters the kitchen, Ma is standing in front of a tray of gingerbread men ready to be frosted. “You remember how to get the icing bags ready, right honey?” she asks, passing him some piping bags and a few Wilton tips.

“Yup,” Foggy replies, “Just like riding a bike through Candy Land.”

He fills the bags one at a time as Ma finishes adding the food coloring to each batch. They make idle conversation regarding Foggy’s dental care routine and laundry habits, and Ma’s back pain and flourishing onion garden.

“He’s cute,” Ma murmurs suddenly, “Is he single?”

Foggy sighs, realizing the kitchen invitation’s true purpose. “Yeah, Ma. But don’t you think he’s a little old for Candace? She’s still in high school,” he says, having difficulty picturing Matt accompanying his little sister to junior prom.

Ma gives him the side-eye. “I’m not talking about for Candace.”

Foggy raises an eyebrow. “Okay, no offense Ma—we both know you’re the most beautiful woman in the world—but he’s a little young for you. And you’re married.”

At this, Ma throws her head back and laughs loudly, prolonged enough for Foggy’s other eyebrow to join the first one. “What’s so funny?” Foggy splutters, baffled. The Nelson clan runs far and wide, but Sylvia is married and Erin is in kindergarten.

Ma wipes a tear from her eye and ruffles Foggy’s long hair until it’s falling in his face. “I’m talking about for you , honey. I know about Connor from high school, regardless of how sneaky you thought you two were being.”

Foggy’s startled gasp results in a coughing fit, and he turns away to keep from getting saliva all over the cookies. He’s not sure, but he thinks he can hear a similar choking sound coming from the living room.

“Ma!” Foggy exclaims, once he’s cleared the spit from his lungs, “How did you even know about that?”

Ma rubs his back in a soothing circle, but has a wicked smile on her face. “Nothing goes on in this house without my knowing. I know you and Debbie were close, but this old woman knows chemistry when she sees it.”

Foggy buries his face in his palms and hopes his blush dies down at some point within the next ten years.

Chapter Text

“Soft,” Matt says before he can really think about it. The thick comforter is soft and downy beneath his fingertips as he runs his hand over the length of it.

“I may have told Ma that you have a skin condition. Dermatographia, specifically,” Foggy says sheepishly. His long hair brushes against the fabric of his hoodie as he shrugs. “My cousin has it, so Ma got out the blanket Erin uses when she comes over.”

Matt can smell the sweet scent that young children seem to carry with them woven in the fabric, even beyond the detergent Mrs. Nelson must have used before preparing the guest room bed. The guest room itself seems to be a potluck of various family members’ belongings. A chest of toys sits beside a secretary desk with organized files and fountain pens instead of non-toxic markers and crayons.

“Lap of luxury,” Matt murmurs, and then says, “Tell your mom I said thank you.”

Foggy rubs the back of his head self consciously and adds, “Uh, hold off on your thanks until I finish. You’re kindasortasharingabedwithme. ”

“Okay, now repeat that about ten times slower,” Matt says with a laugh, “I caught the word ‘bed’ and that’s it.”

Foggy makes a show of taking a deep breath and letting it out. “Buddy, we’re sharing a bed. Grandma’s taking my room cuz it’s downstairs and she can’t make the climb anymore.”

Matt reevaluates the situation, taking in the size of the mattress with a skeptical frown. The full size is a little better than a twin, but not by much. Eventually he nods and says, “Foggy Nelson, my own personal space heater.”

Foggy lets out a surprised laugh. “Matt Murdock, my own personal cinder block. Those muscles better be softer than they look.”

Matt can’t help his baffled expression and asks, “We are getting pillows aren’t we?”

Foggy’s face heats up in an embarrassed blush and he loudly says, “Nevermind, you’re getting the love seat and I’m keeping the blanket! Get out of here, Murdock.”

“I’m telling on you,” Matt says with a chuckle as he makes his way out the door, “Mrs. Nelson!”

Foggy pales, and immediately begins a panicked sprint after Matt. He shouts, “Don’t you dare, Matt! Get back here!”

Later that night, Matt ponders the events of Christmas Eve dinner as he listens to the familiar steady purring of Foggy’s snores. He licks his lips, tasting the faint remaining flavor of Ma’s incredible famous pot roast beyond the toothpaste. Her cooking almost made Mr. Nelson’s inquisition conversation worth it.

[“Did they ever find your eyeballs?”] Yes, they were still in my head.

[“Why do you wear the glasses? Do you have scars?”] No scars. Foggy, tells me the glasses are stylish.

[“Do you sleep with your eyes open?”] Foggy, I’ll let you answer this one.

[“Do the girls find the blind thing sexy?”] Ah, maybe a little bit.

[“Can you still cry?”] Let’s not test that one out. [“Anna! Grab the onions!”]

Matt rolls his eyes fondly and smiles at the memory. Foggy is his father’s son.

To help himself fall asleep in a new place, Matt lies still and familiarizes himself by listening to his surroundings. Down the hall, Mr. and Mrs. Nelson are winding down for the evening, brushing teeth and stealing kisses with toothpaste in their mouths. Matt’s face breaks into a crooked smile at the sweetness of the gesture, and he stretches his senses in the opposite direction to give them privacy. Grandma Nelson is asleep with the television still on, an infomercial playing at low volume as some “revolutionary” new form of food storage is advertised. The next door neighbors are sleeping, except for one teenage girl who’s sneaking out to meet her boyfriend parked down the block. Matt can smell her perfume, hear the popping of her bubblegum, fading as she gets farther away.

The small town is so peaceful, so safe. He can’t hear a single police siren, no crying or screaming. The relief is overwhelming, and he lets out a shaky breath.

The sound of Foggy’s stomach growling brings Matt back to himself. The other man begins to stir, the pace of his breathing and heart rate changing as he wakes. Matt becomes further aware of the heat beside him, the soft sanctuary of the bed.

“Matt,” Foggy says suddenly, as if surprised to find him there.

“Foggy,” Matt replies with amusement.

“You’re in my bed,” Foggy slurs with some confusion, his brain still attempting to catch up with the rest of his body.

“Yep, I was cold,” Matt teases, and touches his chilly fingers to Foggy’s warm neck, feeling the prickle of stubble. Foggy jerks away, trying to escape the undesired temperature.

“Is this normal roommate behavior?” Foggy mumbles and rubs his eyes with the back of his hand.

“Foggy, we’re at your parents’ house,” Matt gently reminds, “Were you really just going to accept the idea of me climbing into your bed in the middle of the night?”

Foggy laughs self consciously and offers a shrug. “A friend in need is a friend indeed,” he says, and adds, “Man, I’m starving.”

“Gingerbread cookies?” Matt suggests.

“Gingerbread cookies,” Foggy agrees.

Morning is a flurry of festive activity, shredded wrapping paper, and joyous Christmas music. Foggy’s parents sing the harmonies of every new song, prompting the embarrassment of Foggy, and Matt’s resulting amusement.

Finally, it’s time for Foggy and Matt to exchange gifts.

“Hard, cylindrical, and nearly scentless. I can’t imagine,” Matt says in befuddlement.

“I wrapped it in an airtight container so your sensitive nose couldn’t give the secret away,” Foggy says proudly, puffing his chest.

“Foggy,” Mrs. Nelson says with a disappointed sigh, “That’s a stereotype. Blind people don’t just magically get super senses once they lose their sight.”

Matt smirks wickedly. “Yeah, Foggy. I thought you of all people would know that.”

Foggy scoffs in betrayal. “In that case, maybe I don’t need to wash my dirty socks so often after all.”

Matt’s cocky expression immediately falls away as he backtracks, “You know what, Mrs. Nelson? Sometimes stereotypes have some truth to them. Foggy, you are absolutely invited to do your laundry.”

Foggy laughs victoriously, and asks, “Are you going to open it or not? It’s called a Christmas present, not a Day-After-Christmas present!”

Matt shakes his head in fond bemusement and carefully unwraps the paper, much to Foggy’s obvious impatience. Inside, he finds what feels like filled Tupperware, of which he pops the lid off. The sweet, decadent scent of Godiva hot chocolate mix fills the air, and Matt takes a deep, appreciative sniff. Laughter begins to bubble from his chest.

“What? What’s so funny?” Foggy demands worriedly, “I thought you’d like it!”

“Foggy,” Matt laughs, “Foggy, open your gift.”

Foggy tears into his with vigor, keeping a suspicious eye on Matt the entire time. When he stops to look down at the package of Godiva mix in his own hands, he bursts into accompanying giggles.

Candace, Grammy, and Mr. and Mrs. Nelson look on in confusion.

“Lap of luxury,” Matt says, wiping a tear of laughter from his eye.

“Lap of luxury,” Foggy agrees, and buries his face in his hands.

Chapter Text

Foggy wonders if this whole roommate thing would be easier if Matt wasn’t so attractive. But that thought gets him onto the thread of subjectivity, on the media’s influence over the standards of beauty, blah blah blah. Then he tries to find physical flaws in Matt’s appearance. His eyebrows are disproportionately thick, sometimes he misses entire patches of hair on his face when he shaves, his hands are covered in gnarly-looking scars. Foggy’s pretty sure he’s the only person who knows that Matt waxes his chest . He’s pretty vain for a blind man, actually. But still, at the end…

Matt is really attractive.

Instead of growing more accustomed to Adonis parading around the room half-naked, Foggy finds the repeated exposure similar to pinching an exposed nerve. When Matt returns from the shower—towel draped over his bare, well-muscled shoulders to catch the remaining droplets of tap water that trickle from his thick hair—Foggy sometimes finds himself physically flinching as he reminds himself not to ogle. At first, he’d told himself it was jealousy. But then he had to go and remember he wasn’t insecure.

Matt’s recent foray into superheroism has given Foggy the excuse to not only look, but touch . Ever since he took up amateur crime fighting, Matt has been coming home a little worse for wear. And because Foggy was the one who suggested his best friend become a superhero to begin with, he can’t help but fuss over Matt when he shows up bruised and bloody.

“Foggy, I got worse cuts falling off my bicycle as a kid,” Matt protests with a laugh as Foggy examines his busted knee.

Matt sits perched somewhat awkwardly in his boxers on the edge of one of the bathroom sinks. His pants and shirt are shucked off in the corner somewhere, and Foggy can smell the auto shop on them. He wonders how much more intense the oil and gas smell is to Matt’s enhanced senses.

“Yeah, but you also got yourself blinded as a kid,” Foggy says absentmindedly, trying to focus on the slightly nauseating appearance of blood and pus spilling from his best friend’s left knee instead of the warm, smooth skin bared around it. “Forgive me if I don’t take your childhood injuries as a reassuring comparison.”

“Fair point,” Matt concedes reluctantly. There’s a twitch in his jaw that allows Foggy to at least internally call Matt’s bluff on the pain scale, even though he would gain nothing by pointing it out.

Foggy wets the hand-towel that he usually reserves for drying his hands and face after washing them, mutters, “Freshly laundered,” and begins to dab at the tender wound. He murmurs quiet apologies under his breath as he applies stinging antiseptic and bandages, though Matt never verbally complains.

“What caused this, anyway?” Foggy asks minutes later, tapping warm skin just above the bandaged wound before rising to his full height. His joints crack embarrassingly loudly as he stands, and he blushes at the smirk that appears on Matt’s face.

Matt rubs at the back of his neck. “Honestly, I don’t know much about cars. Something engine-related maybe. A guy I’d already knocked down clipped me with it as I was going after his friend. I’m fine though,” he explains.

He slowly slides off the sink, favoring his left knee quite noticeably as he lands. The space between the two of them is small enough that Foggy notices for the first time that Matt is slightly taller than him. Foggy’s not sure if he can actually feel the heat radiating off Matt’s bare torso through his own clothing, or if the proximity is just making him sweat.

“Did you want to kiss it to make it better?” Matt asks quietly with a small chuckle when Foggy doesn’t step away, his voice dipping into the lower register he usually reserves for when he’s trying to intimidate his opponents. Foggy hates that being made fun of by Daredevil is somehow a turn on.

He hears the bathroom door squeak open, and Adam whisper a quick “Sorry! I’ll go somewhere else!” before quietly shutting the door again.

Foggy hangs his head in exasperation, and then catches a glimpse of red trickling from beneath the towel Matt wears draped over his shoulders. Of course , Foggy thinks to himself. Matt’s hair isn’t wet. He wouldn’t be wearing the towel if he wasn’t hiding something.

“Matt, sit back on that goddamn sink and let me look at your bleeding shoulder, you crafty son of a gun,” Foggy demands, ignoring whatever had culminated between them, and the rushing sound of his pulse in his ears.

It’s time to grope Matt’s incredible pecs, Foggy thinks to himself, No homo. Okay definitely homo.

Matt holds up his hands apologetically, and hoists himself lithely back up onto the ceramic. Foggy grabs the freaking Egyptian Cotton towel that he had gifted Matt for his stupid over-sensitive skin, and throws it in his stupid handsome face.