Archive of Our Own ^beta

In a generic office somewhere in lower Manhattan, a shitty printer whirrs to life. It beats a steady rhythm as it works, ever ready and chipper. Foggy Nelson rubs his fatigued eyes and stifles a yawn. The printer quiets.

He is a man who has fought tooth and nail to be average, to trek along unnoticed and unbothered. At twenty-eight years old, Foggy Nelson is an unspectacular lawyer on his way to becoming an unspectacular partner. He clocks in and earns a decent living. He clocks out and goes to bed. Sometimes, he takes the time to appreciate the chrysanthemums at the florist's window on his way to work. He sees a new tie on display and makes a note on his phone to check for when there are sales. He drinks generic coffee that leaves a film in his mouth all day, even though he can afford the brand name.

It’s not a good life but he thinks maybe one day, it could be. His days are drips from a leaky ceiling. Every day, another dubious drip. He lays out buckets instead of calling the plumber.

A shitty printer whirrs to life again. Foggy reads another email.

“It’s nearly nine, Nelson. There’s no reason anyone should be working this late on a Friday evening,” says Maria, the custodian.

Foggy startles at her voice and looks up from his deskwork to realize that the lights are off.

He curses under his breath as he rubs his eyes. “I hadn’t realized the time, sorry.”  He packs his briefcase in a hurry and follows her out the door.

Maria shakes her head pityingly as she holds out a wrapped burrito. Its sticker tells him that it’s from the place across the street, which would have closed over an hour ago. “Just take care of yourself,” she says. “You’re still young. You should enjoy it.”

Foggy shrugs dismissively. “Oh, I don’t know. The office has a nice view and all. My chair’s got real leather.”

The hall is short and dark. They pass through a back door and they reach the parking lot, now empty and vast.

Even New York gets lonely sometimes. The summer air is only nearly bearable at night and people like him and Maria are left to pick at the sights no one else wants. New York is big lights and a glimmering night life. New York is also discarded candy wrappers and used condoms on the street.

“It’s a damn shame you’re here all the time. Doesn’t your bed get jealous?” Maria asks. There’s something caring in her tone and he appreciates it for both their sakes.

He shrugs. “Usually it only gets jealous when other beds are involved.”

She snorts briefly, but her expression quickly evens out back to generous compassion. They’re at her car door and the yellow streetlight softens her face. “It’s okay to do more for yourself, you know. I was a wild child when I was your age. It’d be nice to see you loosen up a little.”

“Well, I have plans to be debt-free by thirty-two,” he smiles deprecatingly. “I’ll still be young then.”

She sighs again, climbing into the car. He takes a step back to give her room, and a moment later, her little Toyota breathes to life. She catches Foggy’s gaze and he tries to wave at her assuringly. She rolls her window down to wave back.

“Tell Arman I say hi,” he tells her as she backs up into the street. “And thank you for dinner.”

“Get in safe!” she calls out, and she drives away.

It is 9:06pm on a Friday, Foggy notes. His phone battery is at twelve percent. He has three missed calls from Matt, his best friend, and one from Mike, his best friend’s twin brother.

He weighs his options only for a moment before he calls Mike. The phone rings as he starts to walk.

“Hello?” a sleep-gruff voice says, staticky.

“Hey, it’s Foggy. You called?”

“Yeah, I was letting you know I’m coming over.” The voice perks up, and Foggy can hear him drink something. Water, maybe. “I guess I dozed off waiting for you.”

“Oh.” Foggy swallows, suddenly disappointed. “Sorry. We can take a rain check?”

Mike laughs and it’s thankfully not bitter. “I snuck into your apartment, actually. You really gotta fix the lock on your window. Anyone could get in.”

Foggy lets himself breathe out. For everything else he is, Mike is a familiar comfort. Foggy feels his shoulders relax at his voice. “You’re probably the only one who’d think to break in, though. Everything I own came with a ‘free’ label on it.”

“Haunted objects go for a lot in some markets.”

“And as soon as I can confirm anything’s possessed, I’ll let you know,” he quips back. “Listen, I’ll be home in about ten minutes, but my phone’s nearly out of juice. I better-”

“Yeah, of course,” Mike says quickly. “I’ll see you soon, babe.”

The connection clicks and he’s on the empty sidewalk again, but Foggy finds it hard to feel alone even still. He quickens his steps on the gray concrete and smiles to himself. Mike has a tendency to bring color into just about any situation.

-

In his freshman year of undergrad, his then-roommate and now-best-friend, Matthew Murdock had been struck with a string of tragedies stemming from one particularly crushing one; his father had passed away. Rent money for his family home ran out. He had nowhere to go for the winter holidays.

Matt had a twin brother who was struggling somewhere out on the streets because he’d never gotten any acceptance letter from anywhere. And so, Matt’s twin presumably fell to the wayside of society and into crowds Foggy never fully learned about. He was recently orphaned. He was grieving. He was alone.

Of course, the storm that his mother was, Anna Nelson insisted on having them both over for winter. She took Foggy out on a shopping trip to get presents for them. Foggy helped her look up Christmas recipes and watched her give up when the Christians started crushing up candy canes in everything. It had been an anxious few days, flitting between expectations of Mike’s personality and grief habits.

When Mike finally did show up at the Nelson home, he seemed to do everything in his power to reject the warm welcome they had prepared. He had hardly looked at Foggy. He grunted a polite word of greeting and hid a black eye under his hood, attached to a puffy pink jacket two decades out of style.

"I'm the twin," Mike said, as if his fiery red hair and icy eyes hadn't clued him in.

"I'm the roommate," Foggy said in reply, and stepped to the side to let him in.

He'd never really asked what had happened to Mike in those months between Jack's passing and that first holiday. While Matt was sitting comfy in their little dorm, climbing into Foggy’s bed for comfort and human touch, Mike never mentioned any sort of safety net. Had he been alone? Had he had a bed? Had he eaten well? Foggy had the decency not to ask.

Mike didn’t smile at all on that first holiday. He took a shower promptly after arriving and just before leaving. He kept his long hair tied behind him. He kept his sleeves long and his neckline high. Apologetically, he asked if he could run some laundry. He was neither polite nor standoffish. He had existed, but Foggy got the impression that he wasn’t fully present.

When it was time to leave, he shook Foggy’s hand briskly, and kept his eyes at his feet.

-

He came back the following year. His hair was shorter and his face was less gaunt. He seemed better and his skin was pink with life. Mike opened up like a puzzle box, slowly and in stages. But on that first day, he’d cracked a joke or two and Foggy felt compelled to laugh, though he didn’t remember the jokes being particularly funny.

He’d caught the twins hugging furtively on Foggy’s childhood bed, and Foggy pretended not to see them through the open door. The air around Mike was lighter still after that, even offering to help with the dishes after a hearty dinner had concluded.

On the third day of Hanukkah, Foggy snuck into the kitchen for some water at three in the morning only to find Mike scarfing down leftovers from the fridge.

Foggy had swallowed nervously. They had exchanged all of ten words by then.

"Woah," was all he said, in awe of how much Mike could fit into his mouth at once.

"Sorry," Mike said, downing some water to chase the food. "Got a bit peckish, I guess."

"What's ours is yours." Foggy assured. A stray thought hit him. "Are you eating enough-”

"I work,” Mike cut in defensively. "I have money. I eat plenty."

"Nothing like a home-cooked meal, though, huh?" Foggy tried for humour. He felt an intense compulsion to offer something to the young man, but his hands were empty.

He made a decision, then, and sliced up some of Anna's apple pie, which had been sitting pristine and whole on the counter with a pie knife tucked beside it.

"Are you sure?" Mike asked, wiping his mouth of crumbs with the back of his hand. He looked conflicted, big moon eyes gazing longingly at the pie. Foggy didn't even stop to wonder how long it might have been since he’d had a decent pie like that, one with freshly ground nutmeg and cinnamon. He took two clean forks from the drawer beside him and handed one to Mike.

"I won't tell if you don't,” said Foggy, and Mike gave him a solemn nod.

Two weeks went by in a hurry, and Foggy found himself wanting to be beside Mike more often. Whether it was a protective instinct or fascination, Foggy wouldn’t let himself discern, but Mike seemed to welcome him. Sometimes, Mike smiled at him, and Foggy chased that high.

It was on their second last day together, when Matt and Foggy would soon be making the short trip back to campus and Mike would soon slink back off to what Foggy later learned was a vacant apartment he was squatting in with three of his friends-of-friends, that Mike kissed him.

They were alone in the apartment. Matt was out on a walk with Ed to discuss investment portfolios or something. Anna and Candace were out perusing post-holiday deals. The gaggle of Nelsons from all over the state had all long-since left for home. The house was cold with how empty it was, just the two of them.

It was only natural that their bodies sought heat together.

"Woah," Foggy had sputtered, thunking his head against the wall. They were sitting on his bed, the one he’d slept on back when he was first discovering Star Trek and Doctor Who. "Hey, what?"

"I wanted to thank you," Mike said softly into his ear. His hand wandered down his chest and Foggy felt his heart race. "You've been so damn nice, Fogster."

"Haven’t heard that one before," Foggy mused, and surged forward to kiss back.

And then, before he could even think to stop it, Mike's hand was down Foggy’s sweatpants and feeling around curiously. He remembers feeling dizzy and panicked. Perhaps he had let out some nervous laughter. It had wounded his spirit a little, seeing the shock on Mike's face, brief as it was.

"So, I have a condition," he tried to explain.

"My God, does it hurt?" Mike asked, slipping his hand away but not straying far. He kept it firmly at Foggy's waist. Then he gave Foggy another peck on the corner of his shocked mouth. "I'm just yanking your chain, bud. You're transgender. I get it. Let me blow you?"

And that was the last Foggy saw of his virginity.

-

Something rustles behind him.

Foggy has lived in the city long enough not to be surprised when some guy in a spandex costume drops from the night and lands in front of him.

"Still out?" the guy greets. He has a ridiculous little yellow suit on. It's an eye-catching number, but one would have to be blind to think it actually looked coherent .

"Still out," Foggy confirms with a shrug. "Just a lot of work to sift through."

"You do get paid for the extra hours, don't you?"

He hums. He does have a set number of overtime hours he can be compensated for, and he burns through them on the first week of every month. His best friend is blind, after all, and it takes him longer just to read everything because assistive technology at the company is painfully outdated. He's been sneaking files from Matt’s desk for months so they can both meet their deadlines.

"It's no biggie. Work is what it is. I don't have much else going on."

"F- Mr. Nelson," he says, shaking his head. “It’s not- you shouldn't be out this late."

"Then neither should you," he parries easily. "Stop any bad guys lately, Mr. Devil?"

He turns for a second, watches the other man’s mouth furl downwards. "A few," he answers slowly. "There's always crime out there.”

"And yet you're here looking out for little old me."

"You're a citizen. I'm supposed to protect folks like you." For a moment, their hands brush together, but when Foggy looks back, Daredevil’s hands are clasped behind him.

Foggy nods sagely. "It's Matt, isn't it?"

The man stops walking. "Sorry?"

Foggy barrels on. "You know him, don’t you? He said he knew you. Saved him from walking into wet cement or something? "

“Yes?” he says haltingly. “I may have.”

“He said he has your number,” Foggy says, not expecting that reaction. “Do you give out business cards? Do you live off of thwarting crime? Because if so-”

“Mr. Nelson?” he interjects to keep him on track.

Foggy stops and collects his thoughts. “I assumed you were friends and that he’s told you about me,” he shrugs. “Unless he thinks you guys are a lot closer than you actually are, in which case, please try not to break his heart. He’s more delicate than he lets on.”

Finally, the Devil nods. “Yes. Sure. Matt and I are friends. You weren’t strictly supposed to find out.”

“Keep your secrets better, then.” He nudges Daredevil on the side, hoping to come across lightly, but the man looks conflicted.

"You're not usually out this late are you?" Daredevil asks worriedly, despite being a practical stranger.

"No, not usually. I just," he sighs. He clears away his thoughts. "It's nothing."

"Come on, Mr. Nelson. It’s never nothing. Not if it bothers you this much."

Foggy shakes his head. He can see his street coming up. It’s his neighbourhood. His home. He could avoid talking about it if he wants to.

"I have a high school reunion coming up. Ten whole years. Went by in a blink,” he blurts instead.

"I take it you're not excited," Daredevil says flatly.

"What gave it away?" he says flatly.

"Well, is anyone really excited about high school reunions?"

"That's fair." He’s torn between wanting to vent and wanting not to break down.

"You don't have to go. No shame in not showing up," Daredevil reminds him gently.

"Yeah," Foggy says, a bit too sharp. "Yeah," he tries again, softer. "I know." He turns out of the conversation and looks over at his apartment entrance, just across the street.

"I trust that you can make it home on your own from here?"

Foggy shakes the malice from his voice. "Yeah. Thanks for escorting me, I guess."

"I'm just glad you're safe," the man says with a conviction Foggy doesn’t expect.

He nods, gathering himself. "Yeah." He says, mostly to himself, "Hey, Daredevil?"

"Mr. Nelson?"

"Check in with someone sometime. Keep yourself grounded. You can always check in with me if you need."

Daredevil laughs softly, and he immediately flings himself into the air.

It strikes him then that Daredevil has no way of really contacting him.

"How did you know where I live?" shouts Foggy after the lunatic.

In response, he gets the distant clacking of metal on metal and the breeze blowing through some leaves. Foggy chuckles to it.

Despite himself, he's almost skipping by the time he turns the lock of his door. He half expects Mike to have left by now, but he’s heartened to hear the off-key plucking of his ukulele, a gift from his sister, which he hasn’t touched in half a decade. 

“Hello?” he calls out into the space, and the ukelele clamours back into its case. Mike isn’t gentle, but he’s reliable. Foggy smiles to himself.

-

Another year passed before he saw Mike again. They lived in different circles and Foggy understood that.

On the first day of his third winter break, Mike rang the doorbell like a gentleman and held a wrapped gift in his long-fingered hands.

Not much had changed from how he remembered Mike. He was still tall and lanky, freckled, wide-eyed, bashful. His hair was shorter than Foggy remembered, closely cropped to accentuate his sharp jawline. His shirt was lazily tucked, but tucked nevertheless. He'd grown an inch or two, like Matt had, but their absence from each other made the change more startling. Mike was stunning.

"Foggy," he said, flushed and a little hopeful. He breathed heavily, like he ran all the way there and he grinned down at Foggy so wide he looked silly. Naturally, Foggy wrapped him up in a hug.

It was their golden two weeks together, full of youthful potential more than anything else. If people had noticed how they would slip out to the bodega together to fetch more sodas, no one brought it up. If the trips took too long and they came back looking kiss-rumpled and red, truly, it was between them and the security cameras.

At New Year's, Foggy had been playing video games in his room, wedged between the twins when the adults began to cheer. It had been Matt’s hand in his, giving him a firm squeeze as the countdown neared its end, but it had been Mike's lips on his when the champagne popped.

It had only been a soft peck, but Foggy was dazed from it.

Cousin Greta, who was seven at the time, burst in just as they parted. She catapulted herself onto Mike’s stomach and shrieked about how tired she wasn't. Mike laughed and Foggy savoured the domesticity of it.

Not thirty minutes later, they had Greta tucked into his bed, sleeping soundly. The boys had arranged themselves head to foot on the floor. Matt was in the middle, already sleeping soundly.

"I can't believe this is how you've been living for the last twenty years of your life," Mike whispered to him, awed. "For so long it's just been us and dad."

"It's a lot, huh? Sorry, I know they're a lot."

"No, nothing like that. It's nice, having so many people around." 

Foggy tried to read his expression in the dark. "Well, you're welcome to be a Nelson, if you'd like," Foggy said jokingly. It was, apparently, the wrong move.

"Oh." Mike paused. "I, uh-"

Foggy backtracked. "I didn't mean it like-"

"I know, I know. It’s just, you understand, don't you? You're one kind of person and I'm another. Things are different after the holidays."

"I-" Foggy swallowed. His throat was dry. "Yeah, I get it. We’re not really in each other’s circles. It’s best if we leave it here, yeah? No hard feelings?"

A pause. "Of course,” Mike said. There was a ruffling of sleeping bag material, and Mike hissed a curse at Matt’s sleeping form for kicking him in the face.

-

Mike disappeared for four years. Foggy was in law school by then, working a summer internship at a small but respectable firm who worked mostly for businesses and land development.

One day, amidst the monotony of the routine he’d settled into, his phone rang. It startled him. The number was unlisted, but he answered anyway. "Hello?"

“Oh, thank God,” a man said, relieved. His voice was nearly familiar and it sent Foggy’s skin crawling. The man continued, oblivious to his paralysis. “I got your number from Matt a while back. I was hoping you hadn’t changed it by now.”

“Mike?”

“Got it in one, sugarcakes. Listen,” there was a stuttering breath. “I’m at the precinct by that bagel place. I got caught doing something dumb, and I was hopin’, well. You can imagine.”

Foggy scrubbed his face, ignoring the curious look he received from the other side of the glass door. He was livid. He was staggered. A small, stupid part of him was hopeful, despite it all. “What the fuck, Mike?”

“I know. I’m sorry. I just didn’t want to have to call Matt again. I got this handled, but I’ve got a broken ankle and the cops aren’t letting me go without an escort.”

It was two hours before Foggy was set to punch out, but he grabbed his bag anyway. He knocked on his boss's door and said something about a family emergency before rushing onto the street for a cab.

He grumbled the whole way, but he made it in one piece, which was more than could be said about Mike, who looked an absolute treat. He was purple in the face, bloody knuckles icing his ribs. He sat gingerly in a chair and smiled when he saw Foggy. After such an absence, Foggy still felt a wave of warmth overtake him. Familiarity, or something like that.

“Fucking hell, Mike, what happened?” he said.

He shifted the ice bag in his hand. “It’s not as bad as you think.”

“And what do I think?”

“I know I’m just some fuckin’, I don’t know, street urchin or whatever, but I can make a case for this one,” Mike said with a battered smirk. "There was a group of big guys harassing this kid, see, and she really was just a kid, you know? Can’t have been more than seventeen, I think. They were trying to flip her skirt up, and probably much worse and I just, I had to do something," he explained hastily. "There were witnesses so I’m not being charged, but God, Fogs. I stabbed a guy and I don’t even want to regret it.”

Suddenly, Foggy was leaning down to kiss him hungrily, like he’d finally been allowed to breathe for the first time in four years. Mike kissed back with an open mouth and he tasted like blood. Foggy found that he could live with that.

Too soon, though, Mike was pulling away and hissing at the pain on his side. He pressed their foreheads together, and Foggy watched his mouth move more than he listened to him speaking.

“I’m not a good guy, you know,” Mike said, breaking through to him. “It’s not just the fights, either. I’ve done other things, things even I can’t be proud of.”

Foggy wanted to prod, he wanted to reassure, and he wanted to make his intentions clear. He wanted to say too many things in that moment, but he couldn’t summon his voice. He swallowed his spit and wiped his mouth instead.

Mike nodded to himself and Foggy had no clue how Mike was interpreting him, so he continued to stay quiet.

“Can we be friends? Is- would you be okay with that?”

“Of course,” Foggy said, stifling his hope again. “If that’s what you want, let’s be friends.”

-

It was easy being friends with Mike because neither of them had any expectations for each other. They would hang out occasionally, perhaps a couple times a month or less, getting drinks or catching a film together. Sometimes they would leave it at that, and the night would fizzle out in a way that left Foggy only slightly wounded.

Sometimes, he would be digging Mike out from a dumpster or helping him out of detention. Those were the best times, when they could laugh about Mike’s antics and get ice cream together. Out on the streets, they were nobody. They weren’t mismatched, they couldn’t be without their baggage.

Other times, Mike would follow him into his bedroom and kiss every inch of his skin until the sun started to peek out from his window. He never mentioned how Mike never talked when it happened, or on the pained look he got whenever they made eye contact. Foggy just kissed back as it was asked of him and he moved on in the mornings, like Mike did.

He liked being friends with Mike, but the rest of it wasn’t so easy.

-

"Howdy, hot stuff," Mike greets. He lies lasciviously across the bed, naked but for a pillow on his lap.

"Hey, Mike," Foggy says, as soon as he sees Mike, he realizes how tired he is. "I'm real sorry, but I'm not in the mood for this today."

Mike's grin dims. "What's wrong?" 

"Long day," he says vaguely, undoing his tie and shoving it onto the floor of his closet.

"Come on, Fogs, we know each other better than that. Tell me.”

“It really is nothing.” He strips to his undershirt and boxers, landing in his bed with a soft thump. When he opens his eyes it’s to Mike’s concerned expression. He frowns, wiping at Foggly’s forehead where he knows his brows tend to crease and his fine lines are starting to deepen. 

“Fine,” he huffs, batting Mike’s hand away. “I have a high school reunion coming up. I’m not going, though, so it really is fine.”

“Why not? You’re winning, aren’t you?” Mike says earnestly, as if he believes it. He moves to lie on Foggy’s chest, probably giving him a spectacular view of his double chin.

“That’s not how that works.”

Mike hums, disagreeing but not wanting to argue the point. Instead, he plays with Foggy’s nipple ring through his shirt.

“Sorry, did you come here for something?” Foggy says at last. “Other than the- you know.” He gestures at Mike’s naked body vaguely.

“It’s not a big deal.” He sounds charmingly bashful, like he was when they were kids.

“Mikey-”

“I found a new place to live. I ain’t with those rats you don’t like anymore.”

Foggy chuckles. “The guys who scuffed up the coffee table for cocaine purposes?”

“The guys who kept pissing out the window, yeah,” Mike smiles. “I’m paying decent rent these days, but I think I’m done taking referrals.”

“That’s ‘cause everyone you know tends to be a certain way. They like a certain kind of life. It works for them. They’re not hurting anyone,” Foggy assures.

Mike shrugs. “They’re kind of shitty people.”

“No one’s shitty. Some people are just finding their way.”

He's not smiling anymore, and something flashes over his face for a second, something dark.

"Mike?"

"Some people are shitty, Foggy. You just don't think so because you're not one of them. You haven't seen what people can be like."

Foggy swallows and shakes himself. He wills himself not to be as delicate as he had been feeling all night. He feels hot tears forming at the corners of his eyes, and shameful memories flood to the forefront of his mind. When had he grown so complacent with it all?

"Don’t say that," Foggy says, and his voice quivers.

He remembers high school reluctantly. He remembers it in feelings and ghost touches, and the rest falls away.

"Don’t assume you know me."

Mike leans in closer, his big hands envelop Foggy's neck. "Shit, Foggy. I'm sorry. Whatever I said, I didn't mean to, alright?"

"You have no idea what I've been through."

"I know," he placates. Foggy can’t bring himself to pull away. "I know I don't know a goddamn thing, Fogs. I'm sorry. I'm sure you've seen your share. I'm an idiot, alright? Don't cry."

Foggy reaches up to his face and finds it wet. He rolls out of Mike’s grip.

"Foggy?"

He scrubs his hands over his face, rolling onto his side and trying to will away the feeling in his gut.

"I really am sorry. You know I'm an idiot, too, don't you?"

"Yeah," Foggy says at last. "Just, I know you think I haven't lived through anything, but I have, alright? Just because I grew up with Rosalind's money doesn't mean I grew up around nice people. I'm not naïve."

Mike’s quiet for a while. Uncharacteristically so. It forces Foggy to turn back to him.

"I don't think you're naïve," Mike says slowly. "And I don't doubt your experiences. I just, you don't know about the kind of people I hang out with. People who just don't care about others. People who like seeing other people hurt."

"People can change."

"Some still choose not to."

Foggy shakes his head. There's no one in the world who isn't deserving of hope. He believes that. There are people who hurt others and need to be stopped. He believes that too.

"Well, as far as irredeemable goes, I ain't rich or nice," Mikes says at last, trying to lighten the mood. "And I bet there's plenty of folks like me who are gonna be at the reunion. Why would you wanna miss the chance to see that?"

"I wasn't well liked as a kid," he says pointedly to his wall instead of Mike. Sometimes Foggy wants to live inside Mike's mind where being a timid, fat, Jewish half-boy makes someone popular.

"But you're so good ."

Foggy scoffs. "Yeah. Sure."

Slowly, an arm snakes its way around his body and when he turns, Mike is there, smiling sheepishly.

"Hey, you know what might make you feel better?"

Foggy follows his mood. "Your mouth on my dick?"

"You betcha, sugarplum."

Things are easy with Mike. Nothing has to mean anything. They’re just two people, two bodies enjoying each other. Mike is fun, he’s wild, he’s sexy, and he knows what he wants. They’re not in a relationship, and if Mike doesn’t agree to the terms, he isn’t entitled to pry at Foggy’s last bastions of privacy.

In many ways, it’s humiliating, having Mike tear away at him, layer by layer, so easily when Mike can give so little of himself. Every interaction Foggy has is an exercise in trust, but Mike just takes from him whenever it’s convenient.

They’re friends, Foggy reminds himself for the umpteenth time. They’re friends and friends don’t expect things or want things from the other. Vulnerability is a gift, and it’s not on Foggy to give it, and it’s certainly too much to wonder what Mike gets up to between their trysts.

Does he live with kind people? Do his other friends treat him well? Does he sleep with other people? Foggy’s almost certain he does. He still kisses Mike anyway, hoping to hold his attention even if it’s just for the moment.

It’s past midnight when Mike finally rolls over and sighs contentedly. Foggy lies down next to him, reaching out to brush hair out of Mike’s piercing gaze. He only smiles at Foggy for a second, brokenly, before he sits up to look for his clothes.

“What’s up?” Foggy asks, sitting up to watch Mike dress. He’d left his clothes on the sofa Foggy keeps in the far corner of his room, and Mike finds his boxers to slip on. The air feels sticky and cold between them.

“Do you ever think,” Mike starts, pensive. He takes the undershirt Foggy had been wearing from where it had been discarded on the floor. It’s big on him, but he doesn’t seem to mind.  He finds his own jeans and rifles through his pockets. “Do you ever think we could have been something?”

“Mike?”

“We could pretend,” he continues, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“What are you talking about?” Foggy asks. The words don’t make sense together, and Foggy’s trying to fit them into any context.

Mike shows him two rings, holds them out like pocket change.

“Matt told me you were upset about this reunion thing. Called. Before I got here, I mean. I figured if you wanted someone there, I wouldn’t mind volunteering.”

Foggy feels that sting of humiliating vulnerability again, but he takes one of the rings anyway. He slips it on and refuses to feel anything about it. He watches Mike put his on, too.

“And you’ll be my husband?” Foggy says flatly. “I mean, for the act.”

“If you want me,” Mike talks to his left hand and not to Foggy’s face.

“Oh, Mikey, of course. I just, I didn’t think I’d be going.”

“Right.”

Foggy’s overcome with a stupid impulse. Perhaps he’d been more than curious. Perhaps he wants closure for the four years of hell he’d had to live through. Perhaps he wants to be able to affirm his own hopes that his relentless tormentors had grown into better people without him. Maybe it’s spite, wanting to let everyone know that he’d survived, despite everything. Maybe all he needs is someone to tell him he’s okay afterwards.

“Okay,” Foggy says finally. “I think I can swing a night being married to you.”

Mike pats his leg over the duvet, grabs his foot like he’s seeking comfort or trying desperately to offer some because he avoids Foggy’s eyes.

"It suits you," Mike says absently, taking his hand instead. The ring is thick and sturdy. Yellow gold and a tiny, clear gem set in the middle. "The guy at the pawn shop was convinced it was a real diamond, but he was also convinced that my knock-off Rolex was the real deal, so it really is a coin toss."

Foggy laughs. "Did you really go out of your trouble to get rings? For a grift you weren't even sure was going to happen?"

Mike shrugs. "Well, if you'd declined, I'm sure I would have been able to find some other use for them. Butch and I had plans to get free stuff by-" he shakes his head. "It's not important. But the ring is yours if you want it. The Rolex was scratchy as hell."

Foggy hums and says he’ll think about it. He invites Mike over to stay the night and Mike takes him up on it, settling comfortably in Foggy’s bed. They sleep on their backs, side to side, and the weekend starts marginally more auspiciously than he’s used to, with Mike’s warm skin grazing his and Foggy’s nerves at ease. When Mike falls asleep and starts to snore softly, Foggy plants a furtive kiss to his shoulder and rolls over to his side to watch his digital clock blink into the new hour.

-

Mike came and went in and out of Foggy’s life like an inconsistent rain. It was hard to predict the length of his stay, the intensity of his company, or the quality of the droughts between. Sometimes, Foggy slipped into the secret and thrilling feeling that he was the sole observer of Mike, and that when he was gone from Foggy, he was gone to the world. Perhaps it was selfish of him, but he didn’t like the idea of Mike getting into trouble out of Foggy’s field of view.

Often, he even forgot that Mike had a twin brother whom he saw nearly every day.

It was a shock, then, to find the Murdocks seated on a patio for brunch on a sunny Saturday morning, when Foggy had been running errands in the area.

"Hey!" Foggy greeted them, waving to catch Mike’s eye. He ran across the empty street to greet them properly. "Fancy seeing you guys here.” Mike grinned up at him, winking flirtatiously as was his wont. Foggy patted his hair before turning to Matt, who seemed less than enthused.

"Speak of the devil,” Mike said cryptically, smirking into his croissant sandwich as he took a large bite.

Foggy frowned and looked between them. “Were you talking about me?”

"No," Matt interjected, suspiciously fast. "Alright, yes. It's not anything bad though.”

Mike rolled his eyes, still working on the sandwich in his mouth. "He wanted to know if we were an item."

Matt coughed loudly, choking on his coffee. "Michael!"

"Matthew," retorted Mike.

“What did you say?” Foggy asked, as casually as he could. He fidgeted with his keys in his pocket.

“I was just saying that I’ve been getting the milk for free, doll, but the cow didn’t want to be bought,” Mike took a long sip of his mimosa. “What did you want me to say?” He watched Foggy expectantly.

"Oh." Foggy swallowed, nodding slowly. It wasn’t exactly news, but he was still disappointed to hear it. It wasn’t the first time he’d had misgivings about the nature of a friendship. He knew he was overreacting, but the force of Mike’s wanton dismissal of whatever they were made Foggy dizzy.

"Fogster?" Mike's voice sounded distant all of a sudden, and strong hands guided him to a seat. A lap, maybe, bony and scantily padded. "Sugarplum? Light of my life? Foggy, my gorgeous little-"

Foggy shook himself. "What's up?" Foggy answered finally, getting his bearings on the situation. He felt okay. Disappointment was not the end of the world, he reminded himself.

"Are you okay?" Mike asked him gently. Foggy looked over at Matt, whose face was crumpled with worry.

"Of course. Just feeling a little anemic, I guess."

He felt rather than noticed Mike wrapping his arms around Foggy’s middle, resting a scruffy chin on his shoulder. “Is this your way of asking for some red meat?” he said suggestively. Playfully, he scraped his teeth along Foggy’s neck.

“Oh my God, Mike,” he groaned. It wasn’t funny. He didn’t want to laugh, but a chortle slipped out anyway. Generously, Mike lifted his sandwich to Foggy’s mouth and let him have a bite.

Across the table, Matt had his arms crossed, a boyish pout and square jaw working overtime to pluck at Foggy’s heartstrings.

“You’re allowed to say no to him, you know,” Matt told him. “He’s not- he’s not forcing you to do anything, is he?”

“Of course not.” Foggy picked at the ham of the sandwich, slipping pieces into his mouth. “We’re just,” he paused to describe whatever was between him and Mike, “two adults having a little fun? It’s not that serious, Matty.” He didn’t turn to see Mike’s face. Maybe he avoided it.

“If you say so,” Matt ceded eventually. “I just don’t want either of you to get hurt, is all. As much as I hate to admit it, I don’t know if I’ll be able to take sides if things don’t go-- well, if they don’t go.”

Mike scoffed. “I don’t believe that, Matty-boy. I think you’d make the right choice.”

Foggy swallowed the rest of Mike’s sandwich down and reached for the mimosa.

-

“When did you get engaged?” Karen asks the following Tuesday. They’d been sharing lunch in the conference room. She gave him half of her burger, and he gave her half of his noodles. Idly, they’d been outlining next month’s schedule for the firm because they had a tendency to underutilize Karen’s analytical capabilities. He looks up from the whiteboard.

“What?”

“You’re wearing a ring. Or is it just for fashion?” She takes a delicate bite off of her fork, gesturing to Foggy’s left hand with it once it’s free of noodles. He looks down.

“Oh,” he says, when he’s met with a twinkle. He had meant to take it off, but he simply hadn’t had the heart. “No, it’s just something Mike’s doing as a joke. Guess I forgot and left it on.”

She quirks a brow. “A joke?”

“Well, a con. I don’t know what you’d call it. I have a, uh, reunion coming up, and he said he’d go as my date. I don’t know. I think he’s just into the idea of free food for an evening,” he shrugs, methodically casual.

“And you kept it on because…?” She finishes her meal and wipes her mouth with a napkin, watching Foggy with a wisp of a devious smirk. She wants to be an actress, he reminds himself. He tries to convince himself that she doesn’t really know anything about the situation.

Foggy shrugs again, though he feels a shiver down his spine.

She packs up her utensils and bundles up all their take-out wrappers. “Well, I think it suits you.” She reaches out to hold his hand and she recenters the ring.

He squirms. “What do you mean by that?”

“I don’t know. You look all settled. Like someone loves you.” She spreads his fingers with hers.

“Oh? Do I not usually look like that?”

She’s teasing him. “I don’t know. How long have you known Mike?”

Foggy pouts at her. “Coming on eight years, now, I suppose. But we’re just friends, Karen. It’s not weird.”

She laughs at him, softly, because he probably looks a little odd, blushing like he is.

“This isn’t about you and Mr. Matthew ‘Let’s-Be-Partners” Murdock, is it? If he’s getting in the way of whatever this,” she says, wiggling his ring finger, “is, I’d be happy to take care of that for you.”

“Karen!” he whines. “You can’t just be saying that. Matt and I are-”

“What? Just friends? Like you and Mike are just friends?”

“You know it’s not like that.”

“Do I?” she asks easily. “I’m just saying, he’s practically begging for you to run away with him. I’ve been less than subtle for months and he hardly knows my name.”

“And you think I’m the reason he’s like that?” Foggy balks, trying to wrap his head around a reality where Matt, of all people, has a crush on him.

“You don’t know what he sounds like, talking about you when you’re out of the room.”

“Karen-”

“It’s more than that, too,” she says, smaller. “With you leaving, well, I have nothing in common with these people. If you’re running away together, he’s taking you away from me.”

“Then come with us,” he offers easily. He takes her hand and squeezes it tightly. “I mean it. It can be the three of us.”

“What’ll I even do there without a law degree? It’s not like you’ll need a secretary between the two of you.”

“Well, then come on as a paralegal. Lord knows you’re more astute than half the people with nameplates in here. I know about all the work you did on the Fischer case. Ko, Tyson, Roquefort. You’re indispensable, and they’re not paying you enough.”

She smiles, looking halfway convinced. “And you’d be able to pay me more?”

“I can promise to try.”

She scoots closer to him, bumping their shoulders together. She’s taller than him by a few inches, and she wraps an arm around his shoulders. “And leave my cubbyhole? I don’t know, Foggy. I set up all my little bobbleheads and everything.”

“Run away with me, Karen Page.” He wraps an arm around her waist, and it feels like an indecent proposal, asking her to quit in the middle of their workplace.

“Oh, Foggy.” Foggy looks up to her face and she ruffles his hair, laughing affectionately and planting a kiss onto his forehead.

Then, Matt knocks on the door. “Foggy? Are you in here?” he calls into the room.

“Yeah, buddy,” he answers, stepping out of Karen’s embrace. She gives him a wink and crosses her arms. “Yeah, I am. What’s up?”

“Well, lunch ended five minutes ago, and we were supposed to discuss the Wasser case. I was wondering if you got lost.”

“Right, yeah. I was just chatting with Karen,” Foggy says, moving to clean up the mess left by their meal.

“Of course. Hi, Karen.” He extends an arm and she shakes it precisely once before he lets go and leaves the room.

“You know, if your thing with Mike doesn’t work out, Matt would make a solid plan B,” she teases, poking Foggy on the side.

He scoffs. “I thought you were my plan B.”

She laughs loudly at that, placing a firm kiss to his cheek. When he sees his reflection in the mirror, he catches how her pink lipstick marks his face. He takes in the picture of his form, a ring on his finger and a kiss on his cheek. He wonders if it does suit him, if he looks like someone who could be loved. He slips the ring into his pocket before he walks into the meeting room and is met with some wolf whistling, which he feels free enough to laugh along with.

-

He doesn’t stay very late for work anymore. He has friends who don’t let him. It’s either Karen dragging him to dinner at her apartment, or Matt with surprise reservations. Other times, Mike is waiting for him at a new desserts shop or at home with his cock out. Maria winks at him as he leaves nearer to the beginnings of her shifts than not. He falls into a nice rhythm, and then he runs into Daredevil again.

“Mr. Nelson,” he says, climbing onto his balcony. “What have your poor lungs done to you?”

It’s a rare night where he’s alone at home, smoking out of a window pensively as he lets his mind get accustomed to the bone-deep contentment he’d been feeling lately. It feels more sustainable than anything he’d felt before.

He crushes the butt on his windowsill and places it neatly in an ashtray. Not before blowing smoke into the other man’s face, though.

“Hey, I don’t say anything about your alcohol habits, now do I?” Foggy retorts, but he does feel a little bad about Daredevil coughing helplessly.

“I don’t drink,” Daredevil says seriously when his wheezing subsides.

It makes Foggy chuckle. He wonders for a second if the guy’s old enough to drink, but he banishes the thought. It’s not his business. “Really? That doesn’t seem really on brand for your whole ‘seducing men to a life of damnation’ thing,” he says, gesturing to his horns.

“I don’t generally seduce men either,” he frowns.

Foggy hums. “It’s really brave of you to come out as straight in today’s social climate.”

“Oh.” Daredevil rubs the back of his head, looking too awkward for how broad and tall he is. “I’m not that, either. I just meant that I’m not the seducing type.”

“Oh. Um, thanks for trusting me with that, I guess. Um, me too.”

A moment passes between them before Daredevil sucks in a breath and starts to head down the steps.

“You don’t have to leave if you don’t want to,” Foggy calls after him. “I mean, if you’re not busy.”

Obediently, the man turns back and tentatively sits with his back to the railing facing Foggy, and they both choose that exact moment to run out of things to talk about.

“So, you read any good books lately?” Foggy asks.

The man looks stunned for a second before he lets loose and absolutely guffaws at the question.

“Yes,” he says. “I’ve read a few law journals recently.”

“On, like, mutant relations?” Foggy guesses.

“On loitering laws, actually. Fascinating history and entirely classist. You’d be surprised,” he smirks.

“You hang out with Matt too much, I think.”

Daredevil nods, his smirk getting a touch more cheeky. “Yeah, maybe.”

“So, are you guys seeing each other?” He means it to be a joke and doesn’t expect any particular reaction. He gets one, though.

“What? No!” Daredevil sputters.

“You’re not interested, though?” Foggy decides that he likes watching the man become flustered. “He’s kind of handsome in that byronic way, if you’re into that. I figured you hero types might be into that.”

“No, he’s not really my type.”

“So you have a type?” Foggy notes delightedly. It’s like an easy cross-examination.

"No," he says firmly.

"Sure," he says, disbelief evident in the syllable.

"Fine," the Devil concedes, throwing his hands up. "I like someone honest. You know, hardworking and unfailingly kind. Someone you can just talk about anything with. I'd like a companion, if I were to have anyone at all. It'd be nice to have someone who could be like that. A partner."

For a second, Foggy’s gratified getting to know the mysterious man. Then, he blows a raspberry into the air to disperse the tension. The moment feels too loaded. "Boring!" he exclaims. “I just wanted to know if you were an ass or tits man."

Daredevil turns to him with a mouth open in shock. It's hard to tell at night, but Foggy's almost certain he's blushing.

"A… ass," Daredevil wrestles out of his own mouth. "I'm an ass man."

Foggy hums, nodding in agreement. "I feel that."

The two of them let themselves laugh at the strangeness of the interaction. It's a good night and Foggy’s been happy lately. He's been calm. The gem of his ring glimmers from where his hand rests on his windowsill.

"And you?" asks Daredevil eventually. "Do you have a type?"

He lets himself think for a moment. "I think I'd like someone who makes an effort to understand me," he says, after too long a pause. "Someone willing to let me know them and someone willing to meet me where I'm at. Someone who can really see me."

"Oh," the man says slowly. He frowns and coughs to cover it up. "I meant, something shallow, like, do you prefer brunettes or blondes?"

Foggy laughs. "Actually, I've always had a thing for redheads."

-

The day of the reunion brings with it a chill wind on a sunny day. Foggy dresses in layers and packs more in his suitcase for the rest of the weekend. He's rearranged the contents about a dozen times but he's still antsy about it. 

When Mike appears at his door, his hair is slicked back and his beard scruff is shaved off. That's not the first thing he notices, though.

"What are you wearing?" Foggy asks before even greeting him.

"They’re Matt’s. Is it weird? Does it look too formal? Not formal enough?"

He's never seen Mike so disappointingly plain. Navy pinstripe suit and a satiny white shirt, unbuttoned just enough to see some thick chest hair. Black belt, black shoes. A pair of aviators that Foggy didn’t even know Mike had. They're all conservative choices and they look somehow wrong on him. He doesn't look bad, per se, but he could be anyone.

Foggy inspects him for longer than appropriate. "You just don't look like yourself. You look like-"

"Like Matt," Mike says, tucking some hair behind his ear and Foggy can see that he's wearing his ring. "I know. I thought it would be more appropriate, considering."

Before Foggy can put words to how he feels, though, Mike pushes past him to enter the hall. He has a few bags in his hands, along with a well-worn duffel slung across his chest.

"What's all this?"

Mike ignores him, placing them all on the coffee table. When he sits down, Foggy can see that he's frowning.

"Mike, why did you have a shopping spree?"

"I didn't," he says plainly.

Foggy sits down beside him and squeezes his leg as it had been shaking vigorously. Mike pouts at him before speaking.

"Fine, they're engagement gifts. From the guys I work with. I left the ring on and they were convinced I was getting hitched for real. The guys are real jokesters, you don't have to look at 'em."

The company Mike liked to keep thrilled Foggy to no end. They were friendly enough, but Mike had expressly warned Foggy not to give out his name, address, or occupation lest the group’s opportunism turn on him. He imagines the scene, a collection of rough looking people of all sorts huddled around Mike and his ring, congratulating him.

"You swindled your friends?" laughs Foggy. He kisses a pout off of Mike’s face and pinches his cheeks. “What did they give us?”

"They're probably all sex toys and alcohol, knowing the guys. Didn’t want to open them without you.”

Foggy pulls out a hand mixer out of one of the bags and hums his approval. The next bag contains a comically large rainbow dildo, which he places carefully on Mike’s lap. "They really want us to thrive, don't they?"

"I didn’t tell them it was you. I didn’t think you’d want to be involved."

He holds up some crotchless underwear, somewhere in the ballpark of ten sizes too small. "Are you embarrassed to be with me?" he half jokes, throwing it and the matching bra onto the pile on the coffee table.

"It's a good thing, Foggy. They're not nice people. I don’t like you associating with those types."

“I associate with you, don’t I?”

"I’m not so good either."

"You keep saying that, but you’re still here, ain’t ya? Now, I know I’m not exactly a looker, so either you got some kinks to work out or you don't actually mind us being pals,” he points out. He sinks into the back of the couch and takes Mike by the hand. He gives it a squeeze.

"Hey, you shouldn't say those kinda things about yourself. You're plenty handsome."

Foggy scoffs.

"I'm serious, Foggy. I don’t get how you don’t see it. You have good skin and straight teeth. I don’t even know how you get anything done with an ass like yours-”

“Mike-” Foggy feels tight. He feels guilty to have Mike’s attention. He feels guilty coaxing placating lies out of him.

"I could just about shake you sometimes, buddy. You could do a lot better than someone like me, and it’s a wonder you keep letting me back here."

It’s no secret that Foggy isn’t spectacular. He’s seen himself every day, he’s been himself every day since he was born. He remembers the years of being unhappy. He’s had stretches of time where the wrongness of his own skin felt like it would swallow him whole. It felt so tangible he could swear everyone else saw it, too. It’s crushing to be denied that truth.

Foggy is not happy with who he is, and just when he thinks he’s made peace with the fact that he’ll never be chiseled, or tanned, or tall, he gets Mike fucking lying again.

“If I were anyone else, would you date me?” Foggy asks, probing.

“Oh, sweetheart--” Mike says, too gently. Foggy plays with the ring on his finger.

“Would you? If you were just meeting me for the first time today and we didn’t have all this history between us, would you ask me out in earnest?”

“I wouldn’t. I don’t think I’d be able to,” answers Mike after some thought.

A light in his soul dims a notch. It’s one thing to suspect that the only thing keeping Mike in his bed was an ongoing chain of friendly favours. It’s another thing to have it confirmed. A persistent thought pushes itself to Foggy’s consciousness, and he wonders what about Foggy Nelson falls short of Mike’s preferences. He doesn’t want to think the worst of Mike, but a nagging part of him just knows that his body is just intrinsically flawed.

“What makes it so hard for you to imagine us together?” Foggy asks, out of some awful, masochistic urge. “Is it my vocation? My personality? Or-”

He’s cut off with a kiss. It burns his lips. He’s too freshly wounded for this.

“Fuck, Fog,” Mike gasps, wiping his lip where Foggy bit him. There’s no blood, but he still looks hurt. “What’s wrong?”.

“You’re a real piece of work, Mike.” Foggy paces to his bathroom to straightens himself out.

“I’m just saying what we both already know. Folks like us aren’t meant to be together. We wouldn’t last. I’m a bad idea. You know that. I thought you knew that,” says Mike, audacious enough to sound betrayed.

“Yeah, you’re right. I knew that. You’re a bad idea.”

"I didn't think I was trapping you here."

Foggy combs through his hair. He realizes how juvenile his tie looks and yanks it off of his neck. "Of course not. You're right." Foggy swallows down the lump in his throat. He’s a breath away from absolute humiliation, and he realizes how awful he looks. How awful he must always look. "We have a party to get to.”

When re-enters the living room he finds it impossible to look at Mike’s face. He takes his overnight suitcase from the doorway and heads out, waiting for Mike to follow him. The carpeting outside of his apartment is a putrid shade of grey, littered with liquid stains and pet hair.

"Is it selfish that I still want you to look at me?" Mike asks when they’re alone in the elevator.

"Really is," Foggy replies.

The cab ride is quiet. Foggy watches the buildings go by without memorizing them. He watches the people who walk by and wishes he were any one of them, with their myriad problems that are not his own specific problems. A kid waves at him from a neighbouring car and Foggy wonders what the child must see. Ghoulish misery, perhaps.

When they near the hotel, Foggy grabs Mike by the hand, more a reflex than a gesture.

"Time to be a husband,” Mike says gravely, and Foggy nods. Mike squeezes his hand, and Foggy pulls away from the touch.

The car rolls to a stop, eventually, and Foggy finally chances a look over to Mike, but even so, he can’t bring himself to smile.

Mike always seems to have an answer, though, even if it’s not the right one. He puts his hands on Foggy’s cheeks and seems to contemplate something for a long moment before he says, "Hey, buddy. Don’t take this the wrong way, okay?" and presses their lips together.

Before Foggy can turn out of the kiss, Mike lifts off to blow a raspberry on Foggy’s cheek, fully knowing how ticklish he is.

"There's a smile," Mike says triumphantly as Foggy tries to rein in his laughter.

He calms down in ragged waves, anxiety ebbing as Mike waits beside him. He gives one last sigh before he feels ready for whatever might happen.

"Friends?" Mike asks tentatively.

"Friends," he agrees, letting the truth of it settle.

-

Foggy’s memories of high school are ephemeral and spatial at their core. He remembers the cool metal of his locker as he wipes off the slurs written in cheap lipstick. He remembers the darkness of the space under the bleachers, where he hid when the PE teacher looked the other way. He remembers the echo of the stairwell, where someone had dumped the contents of his backpack. The faces, though, are a complete blur.

"Is that one yours?" someone asks. The voice is distantly familiar. It belongs to a woman, coily-haired and doe-eyed, short but stocky. Foggy feels comforted by her presence, as if his body remembers her even though his mind doesn’t.

"Yeah, I suppose he is." Foggy takes his hand out of where it was clenched in his pocket and holds it out to shake. "Forgive me, I'm blanking on your name."

She grins at him, shaking his hand and clapping him on the shoulder. She’s warmly affectionate, and he finds himself reciprocating the contact. "Know-it-all Nelson, finally too good for us common folk, is it?" she teases with no venom. "It's Kenna. Kenna Leighton. I, uh, I used to hold up a towel for you in locker rooms. Sophomore and junior year, if you remember that."

He gets a flash of her face, far younger, noticing how he’d faced the corner when changing, and suddenly he feels guilty about ever having forgotten her. "Of course! Kenna! Hi!" She angles for a full hug and he goes along willingly. "I didn't recognize you without your green hair."

She chuckles. She shifts into the light, where he can see that her dark hair is highlighted with an ethereal purple. "There are few joys quite like the thrill of going absolutely hog wild with a box dye."

In that moment, he also remembers the school night he had been able to sleep over, and they had sat in her pristine bathroom for two hours trying to bleach her hair.

She keeps talking. "And you? I don't suppose you still go by-"

"It's Franklin now. Foggy,” he amends. “My friends call me Foggy."

"Well, hey, look at you!" she gestures at him. "Did you ever leave the city?"

“No, not really. I think the city has a tendency to seep into your bones, if you know what I mean.” He feels inexplicably bashful, knowing he’s being seen. “And you?”

She shrugs. “I tried Chicago for a while, but you’re right. I’ve been back for four years, now. I should have reached out. I know you were always busy, going for law and everything.”

“Oh, no, it’s a two-way street. My friend tells me I need more friends.”

“The Red Menace over by the tarts?” she gestures. Foggy catches a glimpse of Mike talking to someone with his mouth full. He cringes.

“Actually, his brother and I are planning to go into business together. The brother and I roomed together in college. It’s how I met Mike, actually.”

She smiles at him sweetly. “I’m happy for you, Foggy.”

For the next hour, he reacquaints himself with people he had forgotten. Solid people who remember him fondly. Marcus Hume, his first dance. Nancy Tourney, his first cigarette. Shannon Coelho-Li, his first piercing. Slowly, he reconstructs their time together, something rosier than he had let himself believe. He remembers the stolen moments with them all, real moments of connection interlaced with darker memories of his teeth in the dirt and heavy-bottomed shoes at his chest.

He likes this version better, where he had friends ready to love him had he been able to open up just a fraction more. He prefers this version of himself, and perhaps he can make himself believe the other version of his history simply doesn’t exist. He has witnesses, so it doesn’t have to be a lie.

Lost opportunity is bittersweet in its own way, but it’s far sweeter than abject hate pointed at him.  Foggy lets himself savour it.

"To us," Nancy says, raising her lipstick-rimmed glass of punch, "for all managing to be gay in the end."

Foggy laughs. "To finally finding each other." They clink glasses in shows of exaggerated maturity. Shannon even curtsies in her seat as Marcus tips an imaginary hat to her.

As the champagne giggling diffuses, Mike barrels his way to Foggy at the table, catching him by the shoulder and kissing his ear.

"Hullo, Foggy-boy," he slurs, taking two wobbly steps and landing in Foggy’s lap. "Look at you, stud, I told you you had friends." He smiles languidly, looking around. "And, and look how pretty they all are! Fitting right in." He pokes a finger to Foggy’s cheek. "I still think you're the prettiest, though."

"I think you're drunk, buddy," says Foggy, trying to hold Mike upright as Mike tries to bury his face in Foggy’s neck.

" I think I'm having a good time," he says giddily. "There was a girl, Victoria? And she tried to hit on me. You know what I said? I said 'no ma'am, I got a hot piece with a pretty face willing to let me eat him out later'."

He’s mortified by the interaction, but he lets it slide. "Victoria?" Foggy looks around, only to find one of the girls who used to terrorize him in locker rooms looking back at him.

"Shit, that's Victoria Dunhurst ," Kenna supplies. "She, well, she's alright these days, but she’s been having a rough go of it lately. Her kid goes to my school."

Foggy watches as she makes her way to the table, her subtle blonde highlights and red toenails sparkling in the chandelier light. Everything about her reads expensive, and Foggy gets a familiar pit in his stomach.

"Hi," she says flatly. "I don't know if you remember me-"

"I remember," Foggy says too quickly.

"Yeah.” She winces. "Look, I wanted to tell you I'm sorry. I was a dick. The fact that I was stupid and 16 isn't an excuse. I didn't understand you, and I was awful to you,."

The lump doesn't disappear and he hugs Mike tighter.

"You don't have to forgive me, but that's all I wanted to say. I know you didn’t have it the best growing up, and I hate that I was a part of that. And I’m sorry for hitting on your husband."

She seems genuine, and it’s even more of a gut punch than if she weren't. People can change. On a dime, they change, and suddenly they're not the insecure and hormonal teens they once were. People change for the better all the time, so what’s wrong with Foggy?

“Thanks for that,” he says despondently, trying to think of anything else to say to her. Mike rubs the back of his neck and he hates that it soothes him. He wants to be angry, he wants to be distressed. Instead, he feels hot all over with unbridled fear that he’s behind, somehow, and that he’s never going to be in a place where he’s secure with himself.

She smiles at the pair of them, hesitant but genuine. "I'm glad it turned out well for you. I probably shouldn’t share this, but my son, well, he's been having trouble at school, and it’s reassuring to see that people can survive that and worse.”

“Thank you,” Foggy says again, reaching his hand out to her. She shakes it graciously and gives him a nod.

“Let me know if you need anything,” she says with a final smile, before she heads back to another group of young women.

He sees her shake herself of her nerves, and it’s that gesture, knowing that it’s not easy for her, either, that finally comforts him.

“You still love me best, don’t you?” Mike pouts in his lap, grabbing him by the face to give him a sloppy kiss to the forehead. “You’re not gonna leave me for Victoria, are you? Because I’d miss you an awful lot, Fogger.”

Foggy lets it happen. “I’m not interested in Victoria.”

“It’s alright if you miss women, you know,” Mike tells him, voice hushed but no less quiet. “I can wear a dress at least half as well as that.”

"I think you oughtta let him lie down," Marcus suggests. He chuckles at the pair of them, but more at Mike and his dazed looking face. "He's been guzzling that punch all evening and I don't think he noticed it was alcoholic. I mean, not to put a damper on the fun, but he really looks like he could use some water."

Foggy sighs at the trouble Mike keeps causing and realizes that he never could stay mad at him for long. He gets Mike back on his feet as he says his farewells to the table.

When he extricates himself from the boisterous warmth inside, he breathes in the tranquil outdoors and realizes that the night has progressed without him. The stars twinkle strong above him. It’s a rare sight in the city, but it’s a welcome addition to an expected night. Mike holds him tight by the waist as they make the short trek through the lavish garden and into the hotel lobby.

Unfortunately, the group that had been huddling in the gazebo recognizes him. They remember the name he’d been given at birth and they jeer at him with it.

"It’s been a while," one of them says, and the voice makes his skin prickle. He reluctantly recognizes that one. "Care for a cigarette?"

“No, thanks,” answers Foggy. The man had reached a towering height in his adulthood. Broad shoulders, sharp jaw. "Stay put," he tells Mike, who slumps against a tree with a confused look on his face.

"Did you ever make it to law school?" asks the figure casually. His name, a curse, really, is Gordon Haverhill. More than privileged, he moves as if the world had been handed to him. He slithers out of the gazebo and lands in front of Foggy. 

"I did,” he answers, stone-faced as he can be.

"Congrats, baby." Haverhill's lip twitches into a sneer and he brings an arm up to Foggy’s shoulder, squeezing just enough to hurt. "I’m real proud of you."

"Thanks, Gordy," Foggy says measuredly. He doesn’t slip out of the touch even as it starts to feel bruising. “Listen, I ought to get going, my partner’s feeling a little unwell.”

Haverhill makes a show of looking Mike up and down. “Your boy’s kinda pretty. He know you’re a slut?”

“Just let us go, dude.”

“Hey!” he calls out in Mike’s direction. His grip gets even tighter, a piercing pain, now. “You know this one used to sneak into the boy’s bathrooms? Lord knows what she was doing in there.”

Foggy swallows and wills away the memories he really doesn’t want to relive. A hand grabbing him by the shirt collar to peek down it. A mean smirk calling him a whore. A booted foot approaching his nose as his vision fills with concrete and blood.

“Then again, you gotta be doing something good if he’s sleeping with your ugly mug.”

Bitterly, he realizes he’d been right to be apprehensive about the event. He chides himself for acting stupidly.

Finally, Foggy wrenches himself from the other man’s grasp, feeling sick.

“What the fuck , Gordy?” Foggy spits, putting some distance between him and the other man. He lets his shoulder hurt.

“You got something to say, sweetheart?”

“Yeah, I do.” He feels a crisp rage overtake him. It’s pure and pristine in a way he’d never felt before, and it’s nothing short of exhilarating. “Frankly, it’s pathetic that you still act this way. I’d tell you to get laid more, but I’d feel bad for whatever poor soul you’d have to trick into being nice to you.” Foggy clenches his fists, feeling too big for his body.

"I get enough pussy," Haverhill says coolly. "I can have yours whenever I want."

Foggy spits on his shoes.

-

They had been neighbours as children. Gordon Haverhill was a boy his age who lived just across the street from his mother’s house. When the adults didn’t want to babysit, Foggy snuck out to play with him, and Rosalind trusted the family, being of well-bred stock.

Gordon was a sweet boy. He’d wanted to open a bakery with Foggy. They’d doodled storefront designs together between classes in middle school. They’d shared cookies. They’d experimented with holding hands. They were, by all definitions, best friends, and Foggy was not yet accustomed to conflict.

"Gordy?" Foggy blinked at the colours of dusk on the other boy's face as he lay on Foggy’s lap. The corner of Gordon’s lip twitched up, and Foggy felt lazy with affection.

The grass was cool under his hands as he sank his fingers into the dirt.

"What's up?" Gordon asked. "Still think gorgonzola frosting is a good idea? Because I have a few words to say on that."

Foggy laughed, shaking his head, but he turned somber as he watched the sun start to fade in the horizon. It was summer, so the hour was deceptively late. "Do you think we'll still be friends in high school?" Foggy asked.

His chest had been budding that summer. The shadows on his face were casting softer shapes. He found blood in his toilet one morning and he’d been sick as Rosalind’s cook explained that he was a woman now. Irrationally, he had felt like he was going to die that summer, and it had been Gordon who had held him through what he now knew was a panic attack.

"Of course. It's you and me, isn't it? You and me forever. Three dogs and a kitten. Bakery in the heart of Manhattan."

Foggy took a breath. "What if I'm not who you want me to be? What if I grow up different?"

Gordon chuckled. "I'll still think you're pretty. You know that."

"Gordy," Foggy started, tensing everywhere. He felt that his defenses were irrational. He’d had so much hope.

"You're saying yes, aren’t you? We could be something good together." He was too earnest.

"I'm not saying no, but-"

"Well good." Gordon smiled, reaching over to where Foggy’s hand was picking at dirt. He kissed Foggy’s knuckles anyway. "So it's settled, yeah? We're getting married and we're gonna do the whole picket fence and two and a half kids and everything."

Foggy felt sick. He ripped his hand away.

"I'm a boy," he said quickly. The first time he'd said it to anyone but himself.

"What?"

Foggy was more sure of it the second time.

"I'm a boy. I want to be a boy. Whatever that is. Everyone treats me one way, and it makes me feel all dizzy and clammy and it makes me wanna scream and vomit, Gordy, I hate it. I think I was supposed to be different."

Foggy watched for any reaction, but for a long while, nothing came. Then, it was Gordon’s cruel laughter. "That's crazy."

Foggy closed his eyes and shook his head. "It's not. I've read up on it. It's, there are- there's other people like me," he admitted, hardly talking a moment to breathe lest he lose his spot in the conversation. "I still really like you, but high school is starting in two months and I'm gonna be a boy."

"But you're a girl," Gordon insisted.

"No, I'm not." Foggy felt so cold all of a sudden, and he wrapped himself tighter in his hoodie. "I can help explain it to you, but I'm transgender. It's not new."

"Come on, that's nuts. You hear how nuts that is, don't you?"

"It's not. I did research and-"

Gordon kissed him. His first kiss. It was clumsy, their mouths feeling too big and too small at the same time. A tentative brush of lips, the clacking of teeth against braces.

"We're gonna get married, aren’t we?" Gordon said, and Foggy felt his body lurch away. It was as if something vile and powerful had crept into his skin and he wanted to be anywhere else. "We're gonna run away from all the bullshit and own a bakery. Isn't that right?" Gordon kept leaning into his space and Foggy tried to crawl away.

“I’m a boy."

"I'm not gay.”

Gordon reached for his hand again and it hollowed Foggy out. He wanted his friend to be like he was minutes ago, soft and understanding. Foggy was just asking to be seen, that was all. Did he not deserve that?

Suddenly, the other boy’s mouth was on Foggy’s again, Gordon’s menacing weight above him.

Foggy shivered. For a solid eternity, his body was leaden and stuck to the grass beneath him. He opened his mouth to scream, but Gordon only took it as more of an invitation. He tried to squirm out of the grasp, but Gordon held him down by his wrists.

“We could be boyfriend-girlfriend. Wouldn’t you like that?” Gordon started.

Foggy kicked him between his legs and took the opening to wriggle out from under him. He ran across the street to Rosalind’s big, cold house and locked the door behind him. He was still dizzy when he caught his breath.

“And what sort of hour do you call this?” Rosalind asked. She tapped her nails on the railing from above the stairs. She was already in her silk robe for the night, her hair in curlers. Even undone like that, she was a looming and tyrannical figure. Foggy was never glad to see her except in that moment.

“Sorry, I was just across the street.”

She shook her head disapprovingly. “Go to bed. You’re at your father’s tomorrow.”

“Alright,” he acquiesced easily, swallowing his fear and letting the moment pass through him.

Rosalind left and took the tension with her. Then, it was just Foggy alone at the threshold. Without looking back, he turned off the porchlight and headed to the bathroom to shower.

-

Haverhill grabs him by the front of his shirt so hard that Foggy hears it rip.

“What the fuck did you just do, you little faggot?”

Foggy looks him in the eye. Foggy spits again, and this time it lands squarely on Haverhill’s left cheek. He watches the rage flare up in his tormentor’s face before Foggy lands, hard, on his ass.

Haverhill’s on him in a hurry, straddling him and winding back for a punch. Foggy thinks he hears Mike cry out.

Foggy takes the first hit to his jaw and lets out a shuddering breath. It’s a familiar sensation. After the second hit to his cheek, he realizes that it’s Haverhill’s hard-on pressing against his stomach and he truly lets himself feel that pristine rage again. This time, he wants to let himself do something real with it.

-

High school wasn’t special for a long while. Foggy flew under the radar in baggy hoodies and shitty haircuts that he gave himself in front of the bathroom mirror at his dad’s house. Candace had started stealing his old clothes, and Anna started buying him clothes from the boy’s section. It was a better outcome than he could have hoped for.

He was three months in, settling into something resembling comfort when Gordon re-emerged into his peripheral vision, this time, on the school’s rugby team.

Soon, he’d become the subject of unsavoury rumours and, consequently, he’d been the punching bag for his entire year. It wasn’t always Gordon at the center of it, but it was always Gordon who escalated it when Foggy was within earshot.

-

Foggy tries to kick Haverhill in the dick, but he fudges the landing. Haverhill shudders, though, and Foggy takes the opportunity to swing his body up and send Haverhill off-kilter. Foggy gets one punch in before his fist is grabbed, and his weight is being tossed back down onto the paved ground. 

This time, Haverhill’s broad hands land on Foggy’s throat.

-

Sophomore homecoming, Foggy wore a dress. It was the last time in a long time he tried on anything remotely feminine, but it was a rare gift from Rosalind. He’d tried to explain his identity to her, but she was hardly a presence in his life, popping in and out of it as she saw fit. When she wasn’t out working, she was building social relationships, and he was often left alone with the housekeeper, Janice, if he wasn’t holed up at the Nelsons’ residence.

He forgave her a lot when he was young. He thought she couldn’t help being busy. He thought she’d just wanted to do something nice for her daughter. Janice only told him weeks after the dance that Rosalind never made moves without calculating them. She told Foggy that the dress wasn’t an accident.

He’d thanked Janice for trying to talk to Rosalind, but it was a long while before he stepped foot in Rosalind’s house after that dance, anyway.

After the third song, Foggy realized that he was miserable among all the sweaty, hormonal teens who all had friends or partners to enjoy the hellscape with. Foggy didn’t have such luck.

He’d snuck out to call his dad to pick him up when Gordon found him and dragged him into the boy's bathroom by the wrist.

"What the fuck is this?" he spat, grabbing handfuls of his skirt.

"It’s just a dress. My mom got it for me. Wearing something sparkly doesn’t make me a girl,” he tried to explain.

"Rosalind?"

Foggy tried to inject his voice with more venom. "We don't see eye to eye on a lot of things, but I'm not gonna push her away when she's finally making an effort."

He saw a flash of sympathy wash over Gordon’s face, and Foggy made the mistake of trusting it. He didn’t reach out, but he didn’t take the lull to run away, either.

"We can still be friends, Gordy. I do miss you, sometimes,” he said.

Gordon shook his head. "The guys, they don't like you."

"I know. I know what they say about me. You don't have to be like them, you know.”

"You used to be so cute when we were kids,” Gordon said. His face shifted again and Foggy finally regained his senses enough to step away. “Can't we go back to this? Where I was brave and sweet for thinking you were pretty?" Gordon takes a step towards him.

His back comes in contact with the cold tile wall instead of the entrance and Foggy realizes his mistake, now.

Gordon shuffles closer, boxing Foggy in. Foggy feels a warm hand touch his neck, playing with the ends of his cropped hair. The other lands on his waist and gives it a firm pinch.

"Don’t do this, Gordy. You're not gay. You said so yourself."

"That's right,” Gordon agreed as he knelt down to kiss Foggy’s stomach and his chest.

"I'm saying no.” Foggy tried to be firm. He tried to shove Gordon off, but the boy was already a young athlete by then, and Foggy was weak.

"You’re not saying it hard enough.”

A hand slid under Foggy’s skirt and up his leg, under the leg of his boxers.

"I don't want this.” He felt his body freeze, thinking this couldn’t be happening. It felt unreal, like it was happening to someone far away. His body felt sharp all over.

"You can, though. You can let yourself like this.”

Foggy was fully elsewhere. He didn’t feel Gordon’s hands. He watched the ceiling and not his body. A light flickered.

"Gordon, get off,” Foggy whispered.

"I'm trying to."

"That's not funny."

Gordon huffed. "It really isn't."

It wasn't exactly difficult to overpower Foggy, even on his best day. He was short, he was squeamish, and he never learned how to properly throw a punch. He was fat without muscle. He was hesitation in the body of a depressed child. Gordon picked him up and moved him to the dirty sinks, where his stomach dug into the counter. Gordon’s chest pressed into his back. A hand reached under his skirt and cupped his hip.

As he watched his own terrified face, it occurred to him that for all its failings, his body still wanted him to prosper. It didn’t abandon him.

He reached up and yanked at Gordon’s ears, half willing them to rip off his head. And then Foggy ran as soon as he could, his sneakers and burning lungs protesting all the way home and into Anna’s arms.

-

A big branch gets Gordon on the side of his face and Mike enters Foggy’s vision, red-faced and shouting. It takes a while to register the words.

“-some fucking help ,”he hears Mike saying. “You were just gonna watch this guy murder someone in front of you? Over beef they had a decade ago?”

Gordon is bleeding on the ground, groaning, and still very much alive.

“The next time I see any of you, it’s on fucking sight. What’s Foggy ever done to you?”

He looks to the rest of the guys at the gazebo. They look shifty and ashamed, but he's struck with memories of them all playing at being bullies in their youth.

Now, they’re just people, and as much as Foggy hates them, he realizes that they're not worth worrying about.

"Mike," he calls out with a creaky voice.

"Foggy?" Mike turns around, and when he collapses to his knees to embrace him, Foggy realizes that Mike is still pretty drunk. "Oh, thank God."

Mike’s face is wet, like he’d been crying for Foggy’s sake. It shocks him.

"Shh, shh, it’s okay. I'm okay," Foggy soothes when Mike starts shivering in his arms. He rubs circles onto his back and hopes it helps.

"Why would anyone want to hurt you, Fogs? I don’t get it," Mike asks when the other men disperse. There's a patch of blood where Gordon had been lying, but it, too, will wash off in the rain.

It feels like Foggy is always dealing with the afterisms, trying to convince people of a past that's still so real for him. His face still stings from it.

He doesn't know if it's closure, but he rips his eyes away more easily now. He lets pavement be pavement. He lets a memory be a memory.

"They just couldn't handle how sexy I am," Foggy says, and Mike laughs into his neck. "They got jealous, Mikey, that's all it is."

"I'm sorry I didn't believe you. We shouldn't have come." Mike leans back and runs his fingers over the tender parts of his face and neck. "I didn't think you’d have it this bad. You're so good ."

Foggy kisses his hands as they graze past his mouth. "Thanks for saving me, anyway. I never had that before."

"Fuck, Fogs. You know I'll always be chasing after you. You don't have to do that shit alone anymore. We're- we're friends. We look out for each other."

"Let's get married," Foggy says suddenly, a shock to both of them. "I won't have any better than this, and I'm really happy with you, Mike. I don’t care if you want to see other people or if you go on long business trips without me. I just want to be yours. Please say yes."

"Oh, Foggy. As soon as I find a way to deserve you-"

"No,” he says, firm. “That’s not how it works. That’s not how any of this works. I already love you, you don’t have to earn it.”

Mike nods desperately, drunken fuzz making him swerve. “I love you, too, Foggy. I love the absolute shit out of you.”

“That’s enough for me,” he says, and Foggy closes the distance between them.

-

Sometimes the night sky is deep satin and so thick Foggy could swear he'd be able to reach out and wrap himself up in it. The metal of his fire escape balcony is cool against his back. The glass of his beer bottle, too. It's a welcome chill, his body feeling swollen and aching where he'd been hit. Even still, he feels lighter than he had in a long while.

When he peers inside, he can see Mike, snoring softly in his bed, exactly where he belongs. Light streams in from the open window, the ambient street and the patient moon, both spilling inward to caress Mike's beautiful cheek and rifle through his hair.

"This is an unusual hour for you," Daredevil says, stepping down from the floor above him.

"Maybe so. It's been an unusual day."

"Care to share?" he asks, but he sits down beside him before Foggy can answer.

Foggy sighs, but it's affected in a way he's not used to hearing from himself. He hands the Mask the rest of his beer which is open but still full.

"Well, Daredevil, it appears as though I'm irrevocably in love."

"What a predicament," the man frowns, taking a long swig from the bottle. He downs half of it in one angry go.

"How do I take care of him?" Foggy asks after a while.

"I'll let you know if I ever find out. Mike's tough, though. I wouldn’t worry."

Foggy nods, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. He doesn’t miss his smokes, but he’s still buzzing from earlier.

"So you've met him?"

Daredevil nods vaguely. "He's been having a rough couple of months. He's been crashing on my couch."

"Oh?" Foggy says. "I didn't know you were close."

At that, the Devil doesn't respond. Gingerly, he takes off his right glove. His knuckles are bloody, and Foggy doesn’t know why he's surprised. His hand brushes against Foggy’s left, his fingers finding the band around his ring finger. He sighs.

"He's my brother, Foggy. What else am I supposed to do with him?"

Something washes over Foggy, and somehow, before the mask comes off, he knows what he'll find. Perhaps he's known for a while.

Matt scrubs a hand over his face, rubs at his tired, sightless eyes.

"I'll take care of him, buddy. You know I will,” promises Foggy. He’s sincere about it, like with every other declaration he’s ever made.

"And you'll let me take care of you?"

Foggy shakes his head. Narrates it. "I think, as much as you don't trust him yet, we can take care of each other just fine."

Matt makes a conflicted face. Foggy watches it unfold and he watches Matt’s eyes grow wet.

"Is it selfish I wanted things to be different between us?" Matt asks. Foggy reaches out and locks their fingers together.

"It doesn't mean I love you any less. We're still the same as we were."

It's wholly alien, not only to be loved, but to be on the wrong end of a tender sort of unrequited love. He doesn't quite know what to say.

"I'm not going to try to convince you I'd be a better match," Matt says, wiping his face, coughing a little in some approximation of a laugh. "Even though I know I am. I'm just glad he's got someone good for him."

"He's good for me, too."

Matt nods, leaning back on the railing and casting his eyes to the sky. Perhaps it's prayer. Palm to palm, a plea to God.

"What'll I do with all this emotion now?"

"I don't know. Poetry? Ever think of dying your hair black?"

Matt definitely laughs at that, and he shakes his head. He lets go of Foggy’s hand to put his mask back on, and then he keeps himself at a respectful distance, folding his hands together on his lap.

"I'm a shit writer. You know that."

Foggy laughs too, and pretends things are normal between them.

"I do have something for you," Foggy says. He climbs into his room for a second to retrieve something. He plants a kiss to Mike's fussing form before he hands it to Matt through the window.

"What is it?"

Matt runs his hands over it and swallows. "Foggy-"

"I was gonna show you next week when we got dinner, but now's as good a time as any."

He gapes at the offer as he keeps feeling the fine metal print over and over.

"I'm not going anywhere,” Foggy says. This promise is sincere, too. Love is so precious and he finds himself wanting to preserve it. “Nelson and Murdock, written in stone."

"Foggy, this is-" he manages, before letting out a choked sob.

"Yeah."

Matt stands up abruptly, still cradling the hunk of metal. He leans over and kisses Foggy’s hair.

"You're really bad at this," Matt tells him. "You're supposed to help me over this crush."

Foggy laughs, giving him a punch to the shoulder. "Please? Maverick Murdock? Notorious Mancandy of Midtown? You'll be over me in no time." Foggy pats him on the shoulder. "Get home safe, okay? And explain this whole vigilante thing to me sometime."

"I will." Matt gives him back the plaque and Foggy sets it down gingerly on his sofa chair. Matt coughs and shakes himself a little, clearing his mind of whatever has just transpired. He puts his glove back on, and like that, he’s Daredevil again, a mysterious stranger with no past and no pain. He smiles back at Foggy with just his mouth. "Watch out for Mike in the meantime, alright?"

"I will." Foggy chances a look back to Mike's sleeping form. "I do."

Foggy climbs into bed, where it's warm and familiar. Mike breaks the rhythm of his snoring when Foggy tries to climb in unnoticed.

"Cold," he mumbles, doing his darnedest to kick Foggy’s pants off. He grabs at his t-shirt too and slips his hands under to envelop his flesh. "Be warm."

Foggy wraps himself up in the familiar textures and smells of home. He gives Mike's side a squeeze to hear him yelp tiredly, and he lets himself drift off, comfortable in the arms of someone who loves him.

-

The following Monday greets him warmly, despite his swollen eye. A light dusting of clouds in the air, the florist by his home happily misting her petals, a few dogs Foggy stopped to greet on the way to work. He’d even gotten their names, Penny and Marble. He takes the stairs instead of the elevator, and while it leaves him winded, it lets him appreciate the busy lives of all the other workers in the building he’d never thought to greet. He sees them all, noses in their clipboards and phones to their ears, and he hopes they have some happiness waiting for them somewhere.

When he opens the door, it’s to Kenna and Karen speaking to each other, laughing over some coffee. He catches the tail end of a conversation on the waning season.

“Good morning, ladies,” Foggy says to them, smiling sincerely, though their camaraderie surprises him.

“Oh, Foggy,” says Karen worriedly. She reaches out to his face but stops herself.

Foggy smiles at her, like his face has been possessed. He feels a little loopy from the force of his recent goodwill. “You should see the other guy,” he says, feeling strangely cocky.

“Haverhill had to get a new tooth,” Kenna supplies, patting Foggy on the shoulder. “Let the record show that Foggy is now the class Alpha.” She raises her mug in celebration and winks at him proudly. Foggy beams.

Karen clinks the mug and chuckles. “Kenna was filling me in on what happened. Mentioned knowing you in school.”

Kenna whips her head around to the clock. “Speaking of, I have to get to work in thirteen minutes,” she says, cursing. “I just stopped by to drop off what you left at the hotel. I’m glad you still put your name on everything.” She stands aside and reveals a sensible suitcase and a beat up duffel.

“That’s thoughtful of you,” Foggy says, thanking her and letting her dash out of the office. “Let’s get brunch sometime!” he calls after her, and she throws up a peace sign up behind her. Foggy sighs after her. He finds it comforting to know that there are people looking out for him, as transient as they may be in his life. He finds that things have a way of landing where they belong.

When he turns, Karen is inspecting him with suspicion.

“What?” he says.

“You’re still wearing your ring.”

Foggy huffs. “Maybe it’s a fashion statement.”

“But it’s not?”

“It’s not,” he confirms sheepishly.

She practically shrieks as she gathers him in a tight hug. “Oh, congratulations! I’m so happy for you!”

Foggy lets himself enjoy it for a long time before he starts shuffling away. He looks around him before he whispers to her. “Do you want to take a half day with me?”

“Oh?” she smiles at him, leaning in to giggle like they’re scheming. “Why are we playing hooky?”

“I’m looking for a new office space,” he says. “I’m gonna surprise Matt with it.”

“Is it because you feel bad for ditching him to be with his brother?” she teases.

“That’s ridiculous! He’s my best friend.”

She snickers, far too knowing. Karen Page, far too perceptive for anyone’s good.

“Alright, maybe a little bit,” he concedes. “Are you coming or not?”

She wraps an arm around him and they head to their boss’s office together. “Well, I can’t refuse a Class Alpha, now can I?”

He walks beside her and their feet fall into step with each other. He likes the motion. He likes the friendly arm in his, letting him lead. He’s found his inertia and he doesn’t want to waste a second of it.