Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Gimme a ticket to ride that train
Wind in my hair
Nothing in my brain

It starts, as all of their good ideas do, sat around a table at Josie’s. They’re not drunk but they’re well on their way, somehow finding themselves getting increasingly heated arguing about whether dawn or dusk is the better time of day. Foggy’s trying to drag together some semblance of well-formed argument regarding the pain of getting up early when Karen’s informed, to her genuine surprise, that Matt’s absolutely terrible at waking up in the morning.

“Why do you think he’s always last in the office?” Foggy asks, incredulous. He'd thought Matt’s near comic inability to get out of bed in the morning was common knowledge between them. It’d certainly been a constant throughout his life; half his creative ability had developed from inventing ways to drag Matt out of bed for 9am lectures.

“Because he’s a superhero half the night?” Karen retorts from inside her glass.

“Wrong. It’s because he sleeps through his alarms” Foggy replies, ignoring Matt’s usual protests about being categorised as a superhero. ‘You’ve got a costume Matt, c’mon.'

“Are you kidding me?” Karen says, laughing in disbelief. “You can hear the blood moving in our veins but you can’t hear your alarm?”

Matt shrugs, smirking. It's a fair point. 

“When I sleep, I really sleep.”

“You should've seen him in college” Foggy interjects wistfully, revisiting memories of bleary eyes and pissed off retorts coming from a half-conscious pile on the floor.

“I just can’t imagine it,” Karen continues, disbelief still heavy in her voice. “You’re so well put together in the mornings.”

Foggy chokes on his drink. Matt thumps him on the back, laughing sweetly. He's glad to hear he comes across that way.

“Head wounds aside” Karen acknowledges, gesturing with her glass.

Matt's attention drifts as they continue riffing, Foggy beginning to regale Karen with a few particularly memorable anecdotes from their time at Columbia. He lets the grainy bar music wash over him, alcohol and sweat swirling in the air, the echoes of yelling and chattering and clinking of glass reverberating around the room. It's not jarring him like it used to though, this chaotic soundscape. He's content and happy and grateful to be here, to be able to take steady breaths and tone down his senses to something manageable, to be able to sit and grin inanely as his friends share teasing barbs beside him. They're finally healing from the pain and the misery and the aching, aching loss of their recent pasts, the dust settling on the new life they're building together now. Matt's heart feels full and his face aches from smiling. It's a nice change of pace.

“No but seriously, you've never seen Matt freshly awake?”

He can't believe Karen's never had the honour of witnessing Matt's bed head, never had the joy of seeing Matt glaring out at nothing in particular from underneath a duvet, grumpy and irritable and very fucking amusing. 

“Trust me, it wasn't for lack of trying.”  

“That’s settled then,” Foggy declares triumphantly as Matt snorts in amusement, “we’re having a sleepover.”

A groan escapes from Matt but Karen’s eyes all but light up, a decidedly sly grin pulling at her mouth. An idea is forming.

“What about a holiday?” she proposes, thinking quick.

“A company retreat!” Foggy agrees, keen for the prospect of some work free recovery time. Inebriated and excited, he's oblivious to the air of mischief coming over Karen. 

They spend the rest of the night talking about where they might want to go, what they want to do. They talk about how nice it'll be to get away, to relax. Karen nods along, agreeing amicably. She casually offers to take over the organising duties, because she’s office manager and it just makes sense, really. Her suggestion is met with wholehearted agreement. Good.

Because really, she’s sick to death of the sickening pining ever present between Matt and Foggy now. The forlorn looks and weighted words, the walking too close with shoulders bumping and hands brushing, both of them pretending not to notice. It's infuriating, and it doesn't seem to be coming to an end anytime soon.

So, she makes a plan.

Chapter Text

Made my plans to conquer the country

They’d eventually decided on a mildly popular area of Upstate New York; enough open wilderness to hike, enough civilisation that they could still get takeaways when they got back in the evenings. Karen had snagged a last minute Airbnb for a week, a campsite for the last two days. She’d rented a car, bought a cheap family tent online, the whole package.

Except she’d booked a one-bedroom apartment, because she wasn’t an idiot - she knew how these things go.

Her first experience of Matt’s famous morning grog comes the Monday of them leaving. She’d made sure to register to pick up the keys early, thus ensuring they’d have to leave before the sun rose (she’d been the only one on the pro-dawn side of the argument). Karen loved the greyness and the quiet and the exhausted shivering of leaving for a holiday in the dark and the cold.

Foggy comes down quickly when she calls to let him know she's parked up outside of his place. His eyes are puffy and his hair haphazard but he still gives an excited greeting climbing in, handing her a can of iced coffee and cracking his own shortly after (because yeah, that was how you guaranteed shotgun).

When they pull up to Matt’s their calls aren't picked up. Foggy gives her an exhaustive look of 'see what I mean?' and goes up to bang on the door and harangue. Ten minutes later and he's back out with Matt trailing behind him, still in joggers and a hoodie, bleary and subdued. He clambers into the car with the air of someone very recently asleep and settles into the back seat amongst various jibes, all revolving around some comparison of him to a grumpy teenager.

“This feels like sabotage” he murmurs, already tucking a hoodie behind his head to sleep.

“Oh believe me, it is" Karen replies smugly.

The apartment is nice. It's modern and open plan, all hardwood floors and tasteful knick-knacks, solid bookcases and polished coffee tables. There’s a stylish kitchen with an island, a plush orange sofa and glass doors leading to a small balcony, hazy scenes of rolling green and blue sky visible through the net curtains.

God bless last minute cancellations.

A sole bedroom opens off from the living room, almost mimicking the flow of Matt's apartment. The room can be closed off by two sets of bifold doors, set back at the moment to make the rooms connect, grand and spacious. Romantic, it looked.

Foggy knew exactly what Karen was doing. He'd clocked her ulterior motives the moment he’d failed to locate a door to a second bedroom.

She plays it off well. She laments the mistake, makes a show of fiddling with the app on her phone before conceding graciously.

"Guess the sofa will do for me, hey." 

Her disappointed tone is betrayed by the wicked grin she shoots at Foggy. It takes all of his restraint not to flip her off.

"Guess it seems that way" he grits out in reply instead, his 'I'm-so-fucking-on-to-you-Page'  glare fixed firmly in place.

They talked about his feelings for Matt pretty often now. Sober with reason and logic or drunk with tearful worry - Karen's heard the lot. Foggy had put up a good show of reluctance and denial at first, not really all that ready to admit his decade long crush out loud. But as Karen had continued to corner him, forcing his hand into conversations and confessions, he'd begun to relish in the freedom, the relief that came with finally having someone to talk things through with. Karen was sympathetic and understanding for the most part, if a little gleeful about the situation. ‘Besotted fucking idiot’, he thinks she’d called him.

He'd never thought she’d take matters into her own hands so brazenly though. It terrified him, that woman’s persistence.

Matt also knew exactly what Karen was doing.

He’d known it from the poorly concealed lie in her voice as she’d explained how there must have been a mistake. That it was a nice apartment, and she was sure they could make do.

They’d never talked about his feelings for Foggy before, but she was perceptive and smart and around them for at least 9 hours every day of the work week; she was an investigative journalist, and he and Foggy weren’t exactly subtle. It didn't take enhanced senses to figure out that a plan was afoot here.

Matt was pretty game though, in all honesty. It was agony this tiptoeing around, all coy and unsure, each waiting for the other to make a move because they didn’t know where they stood anymore. Matt’s afraid to fuck up the balance they’ve reached, new and tentative as it is, and Foggy's not going to make the first move and risk scaring Matt away just as they'd finally gotten him back.

What Matt's rapidly realising however, as Karen and Foggy share silent conversation beside him, is that they must have been talking in private a lot more than he'd realised.

He trusts Karen's judgement on this though, and is privately glad for the shove in the right direction.

He shoots his best grin in her direction as Foggy stalks off to scour the airing cupboard for another duvet. The gesture is returned with a jaunty salute, Karen moving to set her stuff up around the sofa.

An interesting week lies ahead of them, no doubt about it.

Chapter Text

Lying here in the sweet Sahara
Thousand miles to the nearest problem

They get hammered the first night there.

They drop their bags off and mill about, resting up until some semblance of energy returns. By late afternoon they gather themselves together enough to venture out into the town, stocking up on groceries and tourist leaflets, as well as a good selection of wines.

Once back they locate the miscellaneous range of board games all Airbnb's seem to come with, Karen grabbing for Twister immediately. Foggy quickly and firmly jumps in to cut down that idea, despite how Matt’s face lights up at the prospect. He wins the brief squabble easily – it's pretty hard to defend playing a game of flexibility and strength when one of the players could do one handed handstands and double backflips. They finally settle on trivial pursuit, mostly sure that Matt won't be able to cheat at that. 

Cue the multiple ensuing arguments.

“-you can see where I’m coming from though” Foggy says, the slurred voice of reason.

“I can’t see-“

“Save it, idiot. I’m taking your turn.”

"What! No way, I'm nearly back at the salmon."

"It's a catfish actually, and that's what you get for trying to cheat."

"I didn't even touch the card!"

"You were looking at it all mysterious and enigmatic, you're up to something, I can tell."

"You can't possibly know that" Matt counters, the face of faux innocence. He had in fact been trying to detect the air displacement around the raised printed answers on the back of the card, doing his best to focus subtly without Foggy noticing him. 

“You underestimate me, Matthew.”

“I never do” Matt replies, his tone briefly serious. Foggy gulps.  

Karen tries to hide her laugh in her glass, moving quickly to steal the dice and the turn for herself. So far, her plan was working excellently.

They head to bed soon after Karen wins the game, fair and square. She answers a final impressive question about the patterns of communication in fungal hyphae ('I know about protoplasmic flow Foggy, I was reading that book last year, remember?') and they submit to her prowess, gathering up glasses and food containers and turning lights off. 

Karen gets settled on the sofa whilst Matt and Foggy take turns changing and brushing their teeth. It's almost reminiscent of their college days, although with much higher quality infrastructure, and they find themselves easily fitting into the dynamic again. They've both admitted many times to missing sharing space with each other like this - it was like a perpetual sleepover. 

Foggy's light-hearted contentment very suddenly vanishes upon crawling into bed beside Matt though. They've shared beds plenty of times before, even a garden hammock after one particularly heavy night, but the energy between them now is imbued with something different, with thick tension and unspoken feelings like it never was back then, and Foggy finds himself unable to relax.

He listens to Matt's feet wriggling.

Matt fidgeted. It was a near constant accompaniment most of the time - he fiddled with his cane and his shirt sleeves and pens and wires, dragged his fingers back and forth across the ridges of furniture and their textured office mugs. He tapped his feet and picked at his skin, swayed back and forth in computer chairs and paced the office floor. Matt always apologised for it at the start of their friendship, trying to restrain the actions for fear of getting on Foggy's nerves, of drawing more attention to himself and the profound 'otherness' he'd felt back in first year. Foggy, true to form, hadn't been bothered one bit, reassuring him to 'go nuts, buddy. Don't hold back on my account'. It was like white noise by now, just reassuring movement that meant Matt was there next to him, alive and well. 

At night he rubbed his feet together rhythmically against the sheets. 'Cricket feet' Foggy would call it in jest. Matt had explained the motion once, drunk as he usually was when he let stuff like that slip past his defences. He'd talked about the cool of the sheets on his skin and the calming rhythm of the movement, the bones and muscles of his feet stretching and flexing back and forth. He said it was something to focus on, helped him fall asleep. Foggy focusses on the sound now, quiet and familiar, feeling the tension in his muscles slowly beginning to drain, his breath deepening. 

"G'night Foggy" Matt whispers from beside him, voice muffled by duvet.

"Night, Matt" he whispers back. 

Karen finally gets the full Matt-unable-to-function experience the next morning. She and Foggy had woken up at a semi-reasonable time, headachy and nauseous as they were. They'd chucked back paracetamol and water and juice and sat in amicable suffering until the life had returned to them enough to get a pot of coffee going. Matt hadn’t moved a muscle in that time, except to roll over and stretch himself into the freed up mattress space that Foggy had vacated.

“He always sleep like that?” Karen asks, gesturing with her coffee cup to where Matt was still splayed, one arm draped dramatically above his head and a leg slung over the side of the bed, jogging bottoms shucked up to his knee. Foggy glances up from his phone towards the bedroom, chuckling.

“Like a baroque oil painting? Yeah.”

“I was gonna say like a housecat but sure, your way works too” Karen replies, grinning. Foggy rolls his eyes.

“Don’t think I don’t know exactly what you’re doing here, Page.”

“Who, me?” She replies angelically, standing to take her coffee out onto the balcony. Foggy lets his gaze linger on Matt’s serene, if slightly bedraggled form for a moment, warmth settling in his chest. They finally had him back. Silly, goofy, overly large housecat Matt. 

The Matt that slept through hangovers, the traitor.

He wakes just after 11 with a pained groan and a hand clutching at his head.

Not quite escaped the hangover then.

Karen and Foggy are sat at the kitchen island playing increasingly bizarre words against each other in hangman, scribbles filling up the back of a map of the town. They stop to watch Matt haul himself up to sit on the edge of the bed, disorientated and frowning vaguely at the coffee table.

“You okay there sleeping beauty?” Foggy asks, bemused.

His head turns to focus on them, blinking owlishly.

“I would like some coffee?” he says slowly, like he’s not sure.

“Is that a passive aggressive attempt at getting me to make you coffee?” Karen huffs good naturedly, standing up to sort out the empty coffee pot for him.

Matt makes a face, scrunching his nose.

“Not you.”

“Oh fuck you” she laughs, affronted. “You can make the walk over here to get your own then” she says, sitting back down in retaliation.

Karen’s coffee doesn’t even taste bad anymore; she’d made them give her a tutorial in making it to their liking, made it perfectly every time now. They still milk it for all it’s worth though - it's a matter of principle at this point.

Foggy stands to take her place in refilling the pot though, taking pity on Matt’s pale face and dishevelled, sorry air.

Chapter Text

I could watch the dreams flicker in your eyes
Lying here asleep on a sunbeam
I wonder if you realize you fascinate me so

Matt was being a complete and utter shit.

Foggy was well aware that Matt was physically affectionate. Handsy, he called him. He loved to lean himself against Foggy on movie nights, to relax into hugs and sling his arm around Foggy anytime he had enough alcohol in his system to blame it on. He would reach out a hand for Foggy to orientate himself in public spaces, his fingers finding their way to his wrist for his pulse whenever he was anxious. Matt had sought out casual touch ever since Foggy had introduced him to the novel concept back when he’d been a skittish first year with no idea what comfort was.

Foggy was well acquainted with all of this (and took secret enjoyment in Matt seeking out his presence so brazenly), which is why he knows Matt’s being purposely ridiculous now. He’s hamming it up for the sake of it, and it’s driving Foggy insane.

Two nights they’d been here, familiarising themselves with the town and the pleasant little walks in the woodlands nearby. They’d gotten people to take pictures of them in front of views and bought baked goods from cafés, eaten takeaway on the balcony as the sun set and played board games late into the night, fragrant air floating in through the open windows. Just classic, idyllic holiday stuff; they were finally relaxing.

Except both mornings Foggy had woken up with Matt’s hands on his pulse points and feet intertwined with his. It was a perfect kind of hell, to have to tear his eyes away from Matt’s sleeping face and shuck him off with his best attempt at a platonic sounding ‘get off me, you whore’.

The fact that both mornings he’d been met with a bleary ‘you love it’ makes his stomach swoop to think about. Karen shooting him smug, knowing looks over the top of her coffee cup hadn’t helped.

But Matt’s notoriously grabby in his sleep, and if it were just that Foggy could probably let it slide, just guys being dudes. But it's not just that, because Matt’s being a shit. It’s Matt stretching obscenely whilst lounging on the sofa, hands behind his head and t-shirt sleeves wrapped tight around his stupid biceps. It’s sitting too close on benches so their legs press together, it’s wriggling his feet under Foggy’s thighs when they’re watching movies in the evenings. Foggy knows he’s doing it all on purpose, in full knowledge of how much he’s winding Foggy up. He can see it in the smirk on Matt’s face when his ridiculous super senses catch Foggy’s gaze lingering or his heartbeat tripping, flustered.

But Foggy also knows there are parts he isn’t doing on purpose. When Matt turns his face to the sun coming through the treetops, smiling gently as he smells the air, hair ruffled by the breeze. When he tails back to walk behind Karen and Foggy, listening to their conversation with a goofy grin on his face like he’s happy just to get to hear it. Those things Matt isn’t doing on purpose just to get Foggy flustered. He’s just like that, and Foggy’s heart feels like it’s going to burst because of it.

They both know what's going on. They know it’s more than just good friendship, this thing between them. Foggy’s known it from the start, thinks Matt probably has too, just hasn’t let himself follow the feeling, emotionally stunted idiot as he is. They tell each other they love each other regularly, have done for a long time; they throw it out as they say goodbye or say it in earnest support after horrible life events. They’ve never said it though. Never talked about the unsaid things between them. About how Matt ices out Marci because he doesn’t know why she makes him furious and bitter. About why Foggy never knows how to talk to Matt about the people he sleeps with, never forming long-term relationships with.

It’s torturous, this back and forth tiptoeing, but it’s not the worst.

What’s the worst are Karen’s self-satisfied, amused grins as she watches it all. Sat at the kitchen island like a villainous mastermind, looking positively evil gleeful as Foggy’s face heated when Matt walked by half dressed and tousled with sleep.

But two can play at that game. Foggy knows full well he can get Matt flustered right back. Foggy can throw out errant suggestive comments that make Matt choke on his drink in surprise, can sling an arm around him just the same, let his hand linger on the back of his neck when he moves away and watch Matt's cheeks turn pink. Foggy knows exactly how to make him lose that annoyingly perfect composure.

Thursday morning Foggy wakes up first, having left the blinds half open last night to ensure the sun woke him up stupidly early. With his heart beating traitorously in his throat he quietly slips a hand onto Matt’s chest. Nothing obscene, nothing too grandiose, just a mirror of the shit Matt’s been pulling in the mornings. And an excuse to feel his muscles through his shirt. Foggy falls back asleep feeling the rising and falling of Matt's breathing, his heart beating slow with sleep.

Matt feels himself being dragged into consciousness earlier than usual, his senses twigging his brain that there's something different going on this morning. The room is warm and stuffy, and there’s a weight on his chest. He freezes. Foggy’s hand is gripping at his shirt, his hair tickling Matt's neck from where his head is buried close to his shoulder. His breathing told him Foggy was still asleep, but Matt knew he woke up early like clockwork.

The asshole had woken up, snaked his hand under the duvet to Matt’s chest, and fallen back asleep. 

Matt’s the one has to get out of bed pink cheeked that morning.

When Foggy sits down last to join the others for breakfast, it’s with a shit eating grin on his face and a smug tone in his voice.

“So nice to have the bed to myself this morning, strange to see you up before me Matt.”

Matt swallows down a smirk with a huff of disbelief, tongue in cheek. Karen’s eyes flick to Matt for his reply, like she’s watching a tennis match.

“Exciting morning, I guess.”

Chapter Text

And it's not that I'm broken
I just snagged on myself

Karen was thoroughly enjoying being exposed to this domestic version of Matt. She’d be treasuring these memories for a long time - the images of Matt sprawled out on the sofa, lazy with sleep and flicking pistachio shells at an increasingly irate Foggy. Or Matt drunk and loose and giggly, pressed into Foggy’s side and sipping from beer bottles to hide his smiles. Matt grinning with his face tilted to the sky, telling them which bird nests and squirrel dreys had babies in.

Her heart soars warm and relieved to see them all so free, so easy to smile and laugh and trade teasing quips. It was as if they’d finally gotten back to the friendship they’d deserved from the get-go, were finally on their way to moving on from it all. 

Mostly. You didn't go through 'it all' without some serious and long-lasting repercussions to deal with.

Karen still slept poorly, unable to let her guard down enough to fall asleep, only to be jolted awake in the night anyway with her chest tight in amorphous, paranoid fear. She still found herself gulping down liquor without registering, when memories began to scream and clamour unbearably in her head and no amount of therapeutic grounding techniques would help. She knew Foggy was still struggling, would still find himself choked with panic in the office sometimes, have to excuse himself to the bathroom to force himself to breathe and remind himself that they were all safe, all still alive.

But her and Foggy talked about it. With their therapists, with each other. They talked things through and made admissions and lessened the weight of everything pressing down on them. Matt had to be dealing with similar degrees of mental after-effects, no way he couldn't be, but he never talked about it. She thinks maybe he talks to Foggy sometimes, forced into it by Foggy's hand no doubt, but certainly not enough. And never to her. All she could ever get out of him were reassurances, just 'I'm alright, just a little tired' and 'I was walking, clearing my head, I'm okay now'. Instead, he turns up to the office haggard and pale and quiet some days, leaving without explanation for hours at a time. He'd be distracted, not hearing his name called or failing to keep track of conversation properly, like he was fading in and out of it. He'd struggle to word things, his replies short and jumbled and choked off.

She knew they were getting better, sure, but Matt's steadfast refusal to talk to her about things meant she had no real idea of just how he was getting better, of what things were still plaguing him.

Karen wakes to the sound of Foggy’s voice from the bedroom, hushed and urgent.

“Foggy?” she calls into the dark, pushing up onto her elbows. “What’s going on?”

Foggy’s stood over the bed with his back to her, his frame illuminated by the torch light from his phone on the bedside table. He doesn’t turn to look at her when he answers.

“Matt’s having a nightmare. He gets them sometimes” he says shortly.

Oh.

She can see him now, as her eyes adjust to the light - Matt’s twisting form on the bed, sheets thrown to the ground as he flinches and tosses sharply. She stumbles in her haste to get up and join them.

Matt’s face is lit by the glow of the torch; he’s pale as a ghost and breathing raggedly, sucking in painful breaths with his hands gripped tight over his ears. Every now and again he flinches, choked cries tearing from his throat. Foggy’s keeping up a steady stream of ‘it’s okay, you’re okay, you’re having a bad dream, it’s okay Matt, I’m here’, not even turning to acknowledge her presence.

She feels out of place suddenly, so completely unsure of anything she could do to help. She feels like an intruder, witnessing something that she shouldn’t be, something that she doesn't have permission to see. She’s seen a lot of the real Matt by now, but never something so raw and uncontrolled and vulnerable.

Matt’s quickly getting worse and she moves back, panicked, watching as Foggy tries urgently to wake him up. He has his hands on Matt’s wrists, pulling them down and away from where he’s begun grinding his knuckles into his head. 

And then suddenly Matt’s awake, shoving at Foggy’s arms and throwing himself backwards off the bed. Karen doesn’t get a moment to register what’s going on before he’s scrambling back to the far corner of the room, crashing out of sight into the ensuite.

Her eyes meet Foggy’s for a brief moment, wide and scared, before they move to follow.

Karen's going to remember this memory for a long time as well. 

Matt’s on the floor backed into the corner, eyes wide and skittering, lost and disorientated - terrified. He’d knocked over a stack of wicker drawers on his dive into the room, a debris of toiletries now scattered across the tiles.

“Matt?” Foggy ventures as he quickly takes in the scene, voice quiet with forced calm. Karen takes his lead, trying to deepen her breathing and slow the racing of her heart, hide the shaking of her hands. 

Matt's head whips towards them, eyes still flitting around like he can’t get a proper grasp on them. Karen’s small gasp cuts through the air.

“His hand, Foggy” she whispers.

He has one of Karen's cheap, plastic eyebrow razors clenched tightly in his hand, his arm half raised in a loose guard.

“Shit. Okay. Shit.” Foggy takes a shaky breath, trying to get Matt's attention again. “Matt? Do you know where you are?”

A small, hesitant head shake.

“We’re on holiday upstate, we’re in an Airbnb. You had a nightmare, you’re in the bathroom.”

Matt looks like he's processing the words, though his breathing remains gasping and uneven.

“I’m awake?” he asks, voice hoarse.

“Yeah buddy, you’re awake.”

Matt nods, still processing.

“Matt?” Foggy tries again. It makes him startle, as if he'd forgotten they were there. He still looks scared. “You gotta drop that razor, Matt.”

Matt cocks his head slightly, eyes widening in surprise as he registers the blade in his hand. He quickly drops it, sending it skittering across the floor with a sharp kick. His face turns back to Foggy, voice suddenly pleading.

“I didn’t- I didn’t mean to-“

“I know Matty, it’s okay, you’re okay.”

“Did I hurt you?”

“Nah, I’m fine” Foggy reassures him, coming into the room fully now to join him on the floor. “I can dodge your flailing any day.”

“I thought-“ Matt cuts himself off again, confused.

Foggy shuffles closer, bringing an arm round Matt to gather him against his side. Matt goes without any resistance, still not quite with it. 

Foggy's gaze meets Karen's then, sharing another shaken look. She takes the cue to quietly back out, leaving Matt curled into Foggy’s chest to fetch them some water and take a minute to breathe.

The gravity of it hits her then, standing in front of the open fridge, of just how much Matt had been through. How harrowing the situations he'd fought in must have been. How many people he's hurt, has witnessed be hurt. How he must live with those experiences, piecing himself back together with those new events as a part of him. She wonders about the decisions he'd made, how awfully he'd treated them - how he had to sit with that knowledge now, had to come to terms with having hurt the people that he loved.

Her mind goes back to that night in her apartment, when Matt had burst out of the night and fought a professional assassin in his stupid workout gear. She thinks of how terrified she had been, how long it had taken for her to feel safe in any building alone after that. She thinks of how that was probably an easy night for Matt, just a regular punch up and take down. She thinks about everything after that, of all the innumerable fights and losses and pain, Fisk and Frank and Dex and Fisk again, murderous cops and hoards of actual, genuine ninjas.

The guy really, really needs to talk to someone. 

She can’t dislodge the image of Matt's eyes wide with terror, the razor gripped in his hand without him even realising. Everything she’d seen Matt take on, she’d never seen him so genuinely afraid.

The fridge beeps, startling her. Water, right. She grabs a bottle, making her way back through the dark apartment and resolving to orchestrate a proper feelings talk when they were back in the city. She's not going to let Matt get away with his silent suffering anymore. Not after this.

She sets the water down on the floor a few feet away from Matt, sitting tentatively on his other side.

“You okay?” she asks, tone soft and light. Matt doesn’t reply, but he does give a quick, sure nod. His head is dropped sideways onto Foggy’s shoulder now, his legs tucked up against him tightly. Foggy’s arm is firm around his shoulders, and Karen shuffles closer to lay her own on top.

They sit, curled together on the tiles, wrapped up in each other’s comfort. They're getting better, sure, but it's a long road to walk.

Chapter Text

But you never trusted tomorrow
Is that any way to live your life?

It takes them a while to get going the next day.

Matt doesn’t exactly wake from sleep, more despondently re-enters consciousness after the sound of birds singing begins to filter in from outside. He doesn’t remember if he even fell back asleep, just remembers lying in a numb haze after Foggy and Karen had corralled him back into bed.

He doesn’t remember much of the specifics.

He resolutely does not want to think hard enough to make himself remember them.

It’s not that Matt actively tries to conceal things from the two of them anymore. He’s working on being more open, being more vulnerable. He’s succeeding with the smaller stuff, the intricacies of daily life with his senses and what’s going on with him that day. But the big stuff? The stuff that plagues his mind and seems to flow black and rancid around his soul? Still carefully dodging around that.  

Anytime Matt does feel like talking, he just- can’t. The muscles in his throat constrict and choke off his words, his head starting to spin with circuitous thoughts and wheedling doubts. The conversation inevitably sours around him as he fails to keep up with it, tripping over the muddle in his head. 

He talks to Foggy sometimes. Haltingly and begrudgingly, but he does talk. Foggy makes him feel safe, always manages to say the right things that help straighten out the thoughts running laps around Matt's brain. But therein lies the problem: Matt’s so desperate not to lose that, not to lose Foggy's steadfast belief that he's a good person. Matt's feelings, his decisions, his actions - he doesn’t want to say any of those things out loud to Foggy, doesn't want to disillusion him with the truth of what was really going inside his head.

Part of Matt thought it was very fair that he should be feeling like this - that it was a kind of penance, a rightful consequence that he needed to face.

And so he just… doesn’t bring things up.

Foggy’s beginning to stir beside him now, startling Matt back to the present. He can tell it’s going to be a misty day today, the morning air cold and damp with moisture, sounds coming in through the open window muffled slightly by the thick haze of droplets in the air. Foggy continues to drag himself awake; he’s shuffling, groaning minutely. He’s tired. Matt's the reason he's tired. He'd ruined both of their nights. He'd scared them. His stomach wrenches.

Matt slips out of bed before Foggy’s fully awake, heading for the shower and away from any possibility of conversation.

Foggy and Karen are clanging about in the kitchen when Matt eventually turns the water off. He makes the decision to join them after only a brief moment of hesitation, hand stalling on the door handle. There’s not really anywhere for him to go to escape this, and he can never avoid confrontation forever.

“Morning, you feeling any better?” Karen chimes as he cautiously enters the main space. She’s readying plates and cutlery on the breakfast bar, the picture of a casual morning. But Matt can hear her heart beating quick and nervous, can sense the tension in her frame as she tries to keep up an air of calmness.

He gives a quick nod, throat unwilling to form words.

“Good stuff, you want coffee?” Foggy questions in reply.

Another nod, along with a swell of gratefulness for them not to be pushing it right now.

He knows without a doubt they’ll be bringing it up later though - they’re good like that. But for this morning at least, he sips fancy coffee and listens to the birds and half pays attention to Foggy and Karen bicker amicably across from him.

They decide to start the big clean up and packing process today, gathering up their various belongings from where they’ve migrated around the house. They’re leaving this luxury tomorrow, heading up north to a campsite more in the sticks, and the place is approaching concerning levels of disorganisation.

Matt is employed as resident search dog, locating various items unable to be found by sight. As both the tallest and the one with the longest reach, Karen has to be commandeered to retrieve one of Foggy’s bobble hats from on top of the kitchen cupboards. Matt has to half-shimmy under the fridge to reach a pair of his balled-up socks, and Foggy has to make two trips to the bins in the parking lot to get rid of their bags of rubbish and empty bottles. 

Matt’s grateful for the distraction of physical work; it’s methodical, forcing his mind to focus and drawing his thoughts away from the events of the previous night.

When they eventually finish up and call it quits for the day, the light of late afternoon is already fading. Foggy and Karen find themselves sat at the freshly gleaming countertop debating whether it’s late enough to start drinking soon, and if so, what should they do.

Matt’s sitting perched up on the counter, rhythmically thunking his heels against the wood as he watches the events unfold. He knows they're both still quietly worried about him, and he also knows they're trying to think of games to play to make the drinking less 'sinister coping mechanism' and more 'fun distraction with friends'.

They decide on truth or dare, much to Foggy’s dismay - he always seemed to come out worse off when they played it, even when he didn’t have Karen plotting against him. Matt brightens at the suggestion though, so he doesn’t fight it much.  

“I don’t know what you’re grinning at, mystery man,” Foggy tuts, “you’ve the most to lose here.”

“Nah, I’ve already brutally exposed all my secrets,” Matt replies good naturedly, “I’m an open book.”

He ignores Karen’s snort of derision.

“Yeah, that's the exact metaphor I'd use,” Foggy monotones, “and get your ass off our counter, you’re adding fuel to the fire of cat similes.”

“Eh, worse things” Matt shrugs, not making any move to jump off. Foggy has a hard time keeping up his front of fake annoyance as he watches a little smile flit across Matt’s face, an air of teasing returning to his tone. Foggy’s heart does its familiar swoop.

Everything between them feels decidedly more real, more affecting now. Now that he knows Matt’s very likely cottoned on to what Karen’s been trying to do, knows that Foggy and her have probably talked about things, and that she’s making a very obvious play because of it. Matt’s seemingly hearty reception is a good sign, but it’s one that scares Foggy shitless – all of the doubts and fears and uncertainties that were swirling vague and untethered are now very real and very tangible, smacking him in the face for attention instead of being easily shoved to the side and stubbornly ignored. 

He realises too late that he’s been watching Matt for too long, and that Matt’s realised he’s staring - his head cocks minutely and his mouth gets that infuriating little quirk that screams 'gotcha'. Foggy snaps his attention back to the phone in his hand, chastised and pink cheeked.

Matt has to do a backflip off of the breakfast island. He pulls off his socks and does it without preamble, spinning in a tight tuck to avoid the ceiling and landing lightly. He finishes the spectacle by box-jumping back up onto the counter, turning to give an easy bow.

“Show off” Foggy faux-grumbles as Matt hops down, chuckling.

Karen has to fetch pastries and wine from the corner shop down the street without wearing shoes. She returns with the goods and a new anecdote under her belt about tying dog poop bags borrowed from a stranger to her feet because they wouldn’t let her in. She gets first choice of pastries.

Foggy has to tell them about his first time meeting Marci. He feels very hard done by, and wishes he’d chosen a dare.

He chooses a dare next and has to trek out onto the grounds below their apartment and sing a Kate Bush song of his choice up at their balcony. Karen films it. He would again be feeling very hard done by if it weren’t for Matt’s face beaming down at him, lit up with drink and glee.

That is until he finishes, bowing, and someone wolf whistles from nearby. Which is when Foggy promptly realises that Karen had snuck back inside at some point and he’s been publicly serenading Matt from the lawn like a fucking lovesick goon.  

God damn Karen and her sinister, malevolent traps. And god damn the bastard knowledge that he is in fact, a fucking lovesick goon.

He commandeers an entire wine bottle when he gets back inside, if only to try to dislodge from his mind how beautiful Matt had looked lit by the soft glow of outdoor lighting.

By the time they’re beginning to slur and spin they decide that it’d be a good idea to go and walk it off before bed.

Their walk brings them to a bar in town.

It’s poorly lit and made entirely of wood and carpet that smells of ale. There’s only a few scattered groups of locals and the odd couple of tourists, but it’s lively and warm and the pints are cheap. They order thick cut chips and play flip the coaster, with the added goal of Matt trying to win without being seen doing so.

They stay that way until Karen goes up for another round and gets talking to a woman at the bar with a sly grin and eyes like a fox. Karen never comes back with their round.  

Foggy and Matt decide to take a walk in the night air, to digest that news.

Matt’s nose guides them to a nearby park. He still keeps his hand at Foggy’s elbow, as if Foggy's doing any ounce of leading. Watching as Matt points his face to the sky to pick out the scents on the breeze, Foggy’s reminded of a bickering conversation they'd had in college after a similar night of drinking and revelling in the evening passing.

‘C’mon, let’s catch a sniff of air before bed.’

‘I’m not some kind of dog, Foggy.’

‘I never said you were! My sister had pet rats that’d sniff the air, you look a lot more like those.’

‘Oh, fuck you.’

‘What? Rats navigate by scent and sound dude, you telling me that doesn’t seem familiar?’

‘Keep talking and you’re waking up with your laptop charger chewed in half.’ 

‘You wouldn’t dare, dickhead.’

‘Try me, shitface.’

Matt asks what Foggy’s grinning about. Foggy tells him not to worry about it. Matt huffs, already pretty sure what Foggy was thinking about.

They're sat on a bench under the glow of a streetlight and the whispers of loping ash branches when Foggy finally feels like it’s the right time to bring it up.

“So, you wanna talk about it yet?”

“Not particularly” comes Matt’s quiet reply.

“Okay. You doing alright though?” Foggy pokes. Matt doesn’t respond; he continues prodding. “It seemed like a pretty bad one this time.”

Matt gives a non-committal hum, his fingers beginning to dig and pull at the splintering wood of the bench seat. 

“I scared Karen.” 

“Well, it’s a scary thing to happen” Foggy reasons. 

“I shouldn’t- she shouldn’t have had to see m- see that.”

Foggy reaches across to gently tug Matt’s hand away from where he’d begun digging the shards of wood under his fingernails. Foggy doesn't let go of his hand.

“It’s not embarrassing for your friend to see into your life, Matt. That’s just what friends do, they share their lives with each other. Scary bits and all.”

Matt hums vaguely in reply again before letting quiet fall, the two of them encased in nothing but the distant muffle of town noise and the rush of treetops in the breeze. Foggy's just about to suggest they head off when Matt's hand squeezes his, and he slides down on the bench to drop his head against Foggy’s shoulder.

“Thanks Fogs.”

Foggy shifts to lean his head against the top of Matt’s.

“You know I’m always here buddy.”

Chapter Text

Won’t be long till I belong

Karen’s insufferably coy when she returns to the apartment the next morning, swaggering in just past 9am wearing yesterday’s clothes and an unfamiliar hoodie. Only Foggy’s awake, sat at the counter in the kitchen with a pot of coffee and stack of buttered toast. He raises his eyebrows in anticipation, matching her grin.

“You’re home late.”

“I had a good night” she says simply, snagging a mug from the draining board and reaching over to commandeer the coffee pot.

“That’s it? No juicy gossip to spill?”

“Nope” Karen replies happily, busying herself with stealing toast from Foggy’s stack.

Foggy’s miffed. How dare she get to keep her autonomy and privacy when it comes to romantic flings.

Matt, predictably, is still completely out of it even as it approaches midday. He’s buried amongst the two duvets, a single foot sticking out to hang over the side of the bed. 

Karen and Foggy are lazing about quietly, still sat in the kitchen, various books and crosswords and half finished notepad games spread across the counter.

In the lull of a late morning, Karen’s deciding whether or not to instigate a conversation she’s been wanting to have. She's thinking about Matt's nightmare, and how quickly they've seemingly moved on from it.

She makes the decision fairly quick - they're not making a habit of avoiding difficult conversations anymore. 

She drags a notebook towards her, flipping over the page of hangman workings and scribbling a quick note, sliding it across to Foggy.

‘Matt’s autistic, isn’t he?’

It'd been a half-formed thought at the back of her mind for a while now. Nothing particularly ground-breaking or dramatic, just a vague conclusion from their continued friendship. But after ‘everything’, and Matt’s lack of progress in getting better at dealing with life, it's starting to stick out as something that needs talking about between them. She doesn’t want to make assumptions though, nor does she want to gossip. She just needs to know some concrete information before she goes crashing into somewhere she might not be welcome.

She watches Foggy carefully as he reads, gauging his reaction. He tenses, glancing up at her quickly then across to Matt. He worries his lip slightly, debating how this is going to go. 

‘That gonna be an issue?’ he scribbles back.

Karen snorts.

‘What kind of asshole do I look like?’

Foggy reads her reply nervously before visibly relaxing, shoulders dropping and a relieved grin pulling at his mouth. Historically, people didn’t react well to figuring out this part of Matt. Karen pulls the notebook back towards her and writes again.

‘Would he ever have told me?’

She watches Foggy’s face fall, looking so sad all of a sudden. He glances at Matt again, letting his eyes linger for a moment on the pile of duvet before writing back.

‘He doesn’t tell anyone.’

Matt hid things. It was just his default. He’d kept his senses hidden, he'd boxed in secret, had never brought up the details of his atrocious childhood. He still carefully shielded his moods and his emotions and any questionable decisions of his. He kept his real self hidden, only letting glimpses of himself out with carefully chosen company. He kept his glasses on and his hands in his pockets.

When Foggy had first read the definition of masking he’d nearly cried with relief. Matt was so clearly at odds with the world, so exhausted by partaking in it in the way that was expected of him. Foggy had felt like he’d found the first piece, the first step towards helping Matt not feel so fucking shitty, all of the time.

Until Matt had condemned the very idea of it, furious at Foggy for even uttering the word autism in relation to him. It was the mid 00's, public understanding was horrific, and Matt so desperately didn’t want to be any more different. It’d taken the better part of their decade together for him to slowly convince Matt that there was actually nothing wrong with him, that this was just how he was, and that doing things that generally helped autistic people could actually make life a lot fucking easier for him.

Who’d have thunk.

But Matt still didn’t like to talk about it. He still stopped himself from stimming in front of people, still sat on his hands or shoved them in his pockets whenever he noticed himself doing it in public. He still rolled out stock phrases and threw on practiced smiles. He still hid.

Foggy’s always so incredibly grateful for Karen’s presence in their lives, but especially so this morning. He reckons with two people badgering him into submission, the chances of Matt accepting himself had just increased. 

Karen doesn’t write any more on the notepad, just tucks it into her bag and reaches across to squeeze Foggy’s hand. The action is firm, reassuring.

Matt drags himself into consciousness just past 2pm. It’s a new record for the week. When he joins them at the island, picking at dry cereal and sipping tenderly at a cup of coffee, he asks Karen if she had a good night. His resulting smile is real and wide and sunny when she tells him that she really did, thanks.

Chapter Text

Kinda want to stay here forever
Kinda like a big redwood tree

They leave the apartment in the most immaculate condition they can manage.

Themselves? Less so.

Karen’s wearing one of Matt’s hoodies, with ripped jeans that were now significantly more ripped than at the start of the week. Matt’s carrying all the bags that aren’t hiking packs; a tote bag on each shoulder, shopping bag in one hand and the tent in the other. Foggy’s wearing Karen’s sunglasses to try and stop a brewing headache from taking hold. He’s nominated to go and sort out the paperwork to have the rental car picked up, whilst Matt and Karen trawl ahead to the bus stop to make sure they don't miss their ride. 

There’s a lot of cheese and wine bloat between them.

Two bus changes, three lukewarm sandwiches of odd leftovers and a 20 minute walk later and they’re all but dragging themselves up a walled lane to the campsite welcome centre. Karen’s removed the hoodie to tie it around her waist, revealing a Columbia t-shirt with the sleeves roughly cut off (a souvenir from their last heatwave). Foggy’s hair is tied up in a pineapple bun to keep it off his neck, and Matt’s still laden with 4 terribly packed bags.

The receptionist hides her doubletake well.

Matt weasels out of helping to set the tent up, claiming it’d look suspicious for him to help too much. Foggy bitches under his breath the whole time, knowing Matt can hear, whilst Matt sits on their bags with a shit eating grin and points out where the ridges and roots in the ground are. Karen throws a lump of mud at him after the third complaint at their placement, Matt dodging it easily to shouts of exasperation at the hypocrisy of it all.  

After his lovely rest, Matt volunteers to cook dinner.

‘No one’s gonna know I’m blind Foggy, don’t be silly’.

He only singes his wrist once on the pot of boiling water (he'd opened the noodles and flinched back from the intensity of their smell), but otherwise he carefully prepares 6 king size pot noodles, handing two each to Foggy and Karen with a different flavour in each hand.

“The mushroom ones are for starters, curry for main course.”

They sit on handily provided stumps of log and shove down noodles (they only have two plastic forks between them, and Karen had already called bagsy on one for herself), exhausted quiet falling over them as the fire sinks lower. Matt perks up at some point just after dusk, bats beginning to flit about above them. Matt’s head keeps bobbing, occasionally drifting to follow the arc of one flying.   

“Can you hear their sonar?” Karen asks quietly, watching him.

A small nod.

"And the moths as well - some of them use sonar, to startle the bats." 

“That's incredible" Foggy breathes, amazed. Matt's lit by firelight, head tilted to the sky with an air of wonder; Foggy's enamoured. 

Matt wanders off to sit alone after they finish eating. It’s been a long and loud day of bus rides, the peace of a little coppice of nearby woodland drawing him in. He'd kept hearing animals snuffling in the undergrowth and scrabbling against bark whilst they were eating, and he wants to go and investigate the night sounds coming from the thicket. 

He sits perched on a fallen trunk amongst the outer trees, slows his breathing, and listens in.

Karen joins him after a while. He hears her footfalls approaching and slowly withdraws his senses from the woods, turning slightly to flash her a grin as she sits down beside him.

“What’re you listening to?” she asks softly.

“Badger sett, about 300 yards," he says, gesturing in the direction. "They steal food from the sites here." His smile softens, adding "there's three young ones.”

“Sweet life” Karen says, bemused. Mostly at the thought of wayward badger youth, but also savouring another one of these moments where Matt’s abilities are casual discussion, confidently shared like it's no big deal. Another moment where he's not using his senses for fighting, or for criminal investigations. He's just listening to wildlife, describing what he can sense. It's nice. 

She mentally shakes herself, turning to the woods to strain her ears. There- a small set of squeals, followed by scrabbling and a light thump. She smiles. Teenage badgers.

She doesn’t know how to bring it up gently, so she just throws it out.

“I know you’re autistic.”

The sudden tension in the air is electric. Matt’s head whips to her in reply, eyes flitting back and forth in quick succession like he's searching for more information. He sighs, frustrated, before turning away. Karen see's his hands clench tightly shut.

“Did Foggy tell you?”

“No, I just noticed” Karen replies, unbothered. She's trying to set an easy tone for the conversation. “He confirmed it to me yesterday though.”

“You guys making a habit of talking about me behind my back?” Matt bites out, harsher than he intends. 

“A little,” she concedes, “you could always join the conversation, you know. Talk about your feelings with us.”

“Sounds awful.” Matt mutters instinctively.

“Why?” Karen asks, leaning forward.

Matt doesn't know how to answer that.

It sounds awful because he’s been keeping so many things carefully hidden for so long that telling them those things would no doubt result in a monumental change in their understanding of him. Because he feels guilty for that fact and guilty for the things he’s done and guilty for how he’s handling it, still. Because cruising along pretending everything's only a little bit bad is way more comfortable than admitting that everything's very bad, and that he has absolutely no idea where to start to get it all sorted out properly. That he doesn't know if he could, even if he did. 

“I don’t know” he says tersely. Hiding again. He doesn’t want to do this now, not wrapped in the peace of evening and the comfort of finally having a good time with his friends. “I’ll- can we, can we not do this now?” He asks quietly, trying to keep the note of pleading out of his voice.

“Okay, yeah, I'm sorry” Karen says, quickly making the decision to back off. She gets it, it isn’t really the place for this discussion right now. They’re happy and relaxed and carefree, and it’d be really nice to make that last as long as possible. “I’ll drop it for now, just- just think about it, okay? We don’t like talking behind your back, but friends just need to know stuff, to help each other out. Come spill some feelings and cry with us at some point, okay?”

She finishes with a sad smile and a quick squeeze of his knee before standing up and heading back to the fire, leaving Matt alone with the woods and the badgers and the smell of wet mud and grass suspended in the night air.

He doesn’t feel as much animosity towards Karen’s proposition as he expects to; he thinks he might be feeling a little hopeful, actually.

That’s got to be a good sign, right?

Chapter Text

This lazy living, yeah it sure tastes good

Foggy’s the first to wake up. It’s frigid inside the tent, condensation pooled heavy and threatening on the layers above. He doesn’t dare move from the position he’s woken up in, head tucked tight into his sleeping bag encased in a pocket of blessed heat.

Whose absurd idea was camping, and how did he not object hard enough to it.

As far as he can tell, neither Karen or Matt are awake yet. Lucky buggers. He twists his head minutely to check on them both, Matt second so he can let his eyes linger on him. Respectfully of course. Foggy’s just not about to miss the opportunity to see what he’s pretty sure is Matt’s first morning waking up in a tent. Poor guy doesn’t know what’s coming.

He loves them both so much. His heart feels so ridiculously full right now, the physical feeling amplified by the beastly shivers he’s trying to suppress. It’s the kind of love where everything seems sunny and warm just because the people around you are so brilliant, your life golden and safe and hopeful with them by your side.   

God he wishes it were sunny and warm.

He’s getting distracted.

Previously, that love has almost always been intermingled with fear and worry and pain; either the subtle worry about Matt’s state of mind and shitty coping mechanisms, or the extreme, heart-wrenching terror that'd been present since he’d put on the mask. Karen has always been mixed in with that, Foggy thinks sadly. She must be feeling some of the same feelings on this trip – that it’s so fucking nice to finally be spending time together without the threat of one of them being killed.

They’ve still got issues, sure, but they finally have room to move forward and deal with them now. Sans kill orders.

Matt wakes up a quarter of an hour later with his customary jolt, startling like an old cat.

“Where am I?” he asks blearily, eyes roving as he drops his head back onto the folded-up hoodie he’s using as a pillow. They’d prepared a lot less well for this part of the holiday.

The tent fills with rustling as Foggy pushes out of the sleeping bag hood, grinning at how soft and bewildered Matt looks right now. He quickly remembers why he didn’t protest the camping idea that much.

“Hell” Foggy replies simply. It’s very cold.

Matt’s rasp of laughter greets him. Foggy watches his breath clouding from his lips.

“Checks out” Matt huffs, eyes falling shut as he burrows back down into his own pocket of warmth. 

Karen’s sleeping bag joins the rustling.

“City bitches” she grumbles. They clearly lacked the Vermont toughness, the knowledge that you have to lean into the discomfort, revel in the misery.

It is very cold though, she will admit.

Not to them, of course. She has a reputation to uphold.

It’s over an hour later when they finally unzip the door and crawl out into the morning light, all absolutely bursting for a piss. They potter in opposite directions to various areas of tree cover; the campsite is nestled beneath rising mountainsides and encompassed by thick woodland and worn logging trails. It’s a very scenic morning piss.  

They boil water and eat pre-packaged porridge and drink crap coffee whilst perched on the same slippery logs as last night. Matt graciously volunteers to deconstruct the tent, something the other two greatly appreciate. Even if they end up having to help anyway, because apparently Matt’s brain had disintegrated overnight.

“It’s literally the same mechanism as a cane dude, how are you messing this up so bad?” Foggy asks in exasperation after Matt’s third failed attempt to collect the disassembled poles into an orderly stack.

“Can you get carbon dioxide poisoning from a tent?” Is all Matt replies with, eyebrows knitting together in confusion as he considers the jumbled pile of pole segments in front of him. How is he messing this up so bad?

Karen and Foggy share a bemused look over his head. Camping isn’t for everyone.

When the tent is finally packed and lashed to the top of Karen’s bag (she’d lost the game of rock-paper-scissors), they set off down their chosen logging trail. They’ve plotted out a vague route, Karen confident she can get them to their next booked campsite by the end of the day. Foggy bets Matt a fiver that they’ll end up anywhere but there. Matt accepts, but only to rep Karen’s corner. Privately, he thinks they’ll end up pitching their tent in a trailhead carpark somewhere, waiting for a kind stranger/emergency services to give them a lift.  

Matt, in his fraying jeans and scuffed trainers, hands in his pockets most of the way, is still the most agile of them all. He moves with accuracy and strength and balance, all precise footfalls and easy compensations for slips. He manages to keep an infuriating look of innocence plastered on his face as the other two, with walking boots and working eyes, stumble and trip on rocks and roots, catch themselves on tree branches and loping tendrils of brambles.  

“Seriously? How the fuck are you doing that?” Foggy bemoans after the third time Matt hops easily down a set of staggered ledges.

“Using my senses - you’d think you could do that too” he laughs, taking off ahead of them.

“Smug prick” Karen mutters to Foggy. Matt flips them off over his shoulder, ducking under a branch with a flourish.

They stop to eat around a little outcrop of rocks, dropping their packs with dull thuds and pained groans. Settling back against boulders and tree trunks, an exhausted quiet takes over them. Karen's muttering at a map spread out on the dirt, distractedly biting at an entire cucumber. So far they’re still on route, but they're going to need to press ahead hard to have a chance of making it before nightfall.

Not that Matt’s really bothered about that bit.

He’s sitting back with his legs stretched out in front of him, head turned up towards the treetops letting the two carrots and most of a bag of trail mix digest. He's half-listening to Foggy and Karen’s light conversation, but mostly he's just revelling in the absence of a city.

He loves hiking, it turns out.

Waking up in a tent had been an ordeal and a half, but that pain and horrible dehydration had been quickly forgotten as repetitive footfalls and new smells and sounds and obstacles had taken over. Walking in the cool shade of the trees, the smell of pine resin and packed dirt enthralling him, Matt had had a hard time keeping a smile off his face. He’d been captivated by how empty his brain felt without buildings towering and people clamouring, without sensory input assaulting him from every direction. Here, the input ambles into his brain, drifts in with a relaxed, amicable air. It’s birds scrabbling in the branches above them, wings rustling and chirps of intrigue raining down as their presence in the woods is considered. If he really listened he could hear spiders spinning their webs between lichen covered branches, legs pinging off the taught strands.

The pines especially were brilliant: the intoxicating smell of resin, the rushing of wind amongst millions of needles, creaking of trunks bending in the wind and the thump thump thump of liquid being pumped up inside them.

Every now and again a hush would fall as the wings of a raptor sliced through the air between the trunks.

In the same way he can hear the thrum of human activity and the harsh lines of city infrastructure, so too can he hear the writhing of the natural world. If he stretches out his senses enough, he can even hear the air currents moving across the landscape. 

At every stage of this trip Foggy's had a moment where he thinks he can't fall any further for Matt. Matt keeps proving him wrong.

He just looks so fucking peaceful right now, so happy to be sat in the dirt eating raisins and nuts with his friends. He looks angelic, though Foggy doesn’t think the Catholic church would approve of him using that descriptor given the thoughts it's in conjunction with. He can't help it though, with Matt sat leaning back propped up by his hands, legs stretched out and ankles crossed, face tilted to the sky with his head cocked as he listens to god knows what. The little smile on his face is making Foggy's heart skip; he hopes Matt's too focussed on birds or beetles or whatever to notice. 

He looks young, more like a careless college student than he had as an actual college student. There's so much less weariness to him out here, finally free from carrying the weight of a city’s worth of crime on his back.

Foggy really, really wants to kiss him right now. Like to the point it’s becoming a problem. With the hazel of Matt’s eyes lit by the sun and his hair ruffled by wind, Foggy's having to exert some impressive control not to crawl up next to him and bury his face into his neck.

A jab from Karen’s socked foot startles him. She’s got that smug glint to her eye, the one she gets when she's caught him staring. Foggy doesn’t duck his head this time though, doesn't shy away, embarrassed. He meets her eyes, still smiling, and gives a shrug that says ‘can you blame me?’, before turning back to Matt again. Matt notices the movement, head dipping down to focus on Foggy.

He's still got that little smile on his face.

Chapter Text

Yeah we finally got free
How's that for manifesting our destiny

They start up for the afternoon shortly after Matt starts doing light parkour over the boulders.

“Alright Simone Biles that’s enough, you’ll twist an ankle and we'll have to drag you behind us like a ragdoll the rest of the way” Karen admonishes, as Matt vaults over a particularly cavernous gap.

Really, she could watch Matt’s easy acrobatics all day, but Foggy’s had that besotted, adoring look on his face for long enough and she simply can’t take any more of it, devious masterplan or not. 

Matt laughs in response, hopping across the rocks back to them.

“I don’t get sprained ankles.”

“No, you get grievous head wounds.”

“Only sometimes” he shrugs, jumping down to help them finish packing up.

Matt offers to take the tent this time. He cheats at rock paper scissors anyway – it’s all in the sound of their wrist muscles as they throw.

They’re not expecting the viewpoint. By the look of the freshly cut vegetation and glossy information boards, it’s too new of an addition to be marked on their raggedy charity shop OS map. It's a large outcrop of rock bordered by heath and shrub, rising just enough above the trees to reveal the entire, undulating forest around them. Karen wanders off to read the information boards, tactfully leaving Matt and Foggy alone. They stand side by side, not quite touching, facing out across the mountains. Foggy has to shove his hands in his pockets to stop himself from taking Matt’s hand in his own.  

“It’s one hell of a view buddy.”

Matt smiles wistfully at the words.

“Describe it to me?” he asks softly.

Foggy gulps, feeling decidedly nervous. He’s good at describing the frivolities of city life, people’s wacky outfits and different types of dogs, but he’s never been good at poetically painting a picture of nature. It really is such an astounding view though, and he thinks he owes it to Matt to at least try.

“Okay, so it’s like, 360° openness, right? We’re above everything, the forest stretching out around us, all thick and scraggly. The sky is this icy blue, really fresh and clear and not a cloud to be seen. It’s- it’s the amount of sky where the air goes hazy because of how much of it there is. It contrasts the greens of the treetops- they’re all this deep conifer emerald colour- but the sunlight's pale and yellow so it picks out the details. It's very bright." Foggy lets himself finish there, at a loss for how else to continue. He turns to Matt to see if any of his words have landed. 

“It sounds beautiful.”

Foggy’s stomach does a little flip. He ignores it.

“Yeah, it really is.”

Foggy’s living a fairy-tale, he’s sure of it. Because of course he’s not looking at the view anymore, he’s looking at Matt, exactly like the scenes from films. He’s watching how Matt’s eyes flit back and forth as he drinks in whatever his sense of the view is, how his lips are slightly parted in awe, a little grin tugging at them. Foggy realises with a start that Matt's had his glasses off for the majority of these days out in the woods. It makes his throat constrict, his chest tighten with emotion. It’s been a long time since Matt’s been so comfortable without that barrier. The pale afternoon light makes his eyes gleam golden.

“Tell me what you get from it?” Foggy asks gently.

Matt doesn’t reply immediately. His mouth shuts, brow furrowing slightly, clearly also struggling to think of the right words.

“Well, it’s open," he starts. "In a way I'm not used to. I can just- feel, until I can’t feel anymore. I can sense the air currents moving across the landscape, I know there’s a valley over this way-” he points directly at the great sunken line cutting through the woods then, where the greens turn darker, hidden by shade. “It’s cooler, there. I can hear the rush of water moving down it, feel the vibrations of it hitting rocks.”

Matt pauses then, suddenly embarrassed. He’s never been good at translating his senses into words. But Foggy stays quiet, waiting for him to continue.

“I know that there’s a lake there-” he points again, picking out the gleaming mass of water reflecting the sky. “The air above it is cold, and I can hear the water sloshing.” Foggy laughs in astonishment at that, Matt feeling emboldened by the sound. “And then there's the smells," he continues, trying to think of how best to explain. "There’s so many new things I don’t know. I've got bilberry and heather now, and some of the finer grasses are still in flower. But the animals I don’t know, and it took me a while to figure out what the dust from bird feathers was, and-”

Matt cuts himself off abruptly then, realising he’s been talking for a while now and that Foggy’s still staring, captivated. He quickly wraps up, suddenly flustered by the attention, and by the way Foggy’s heart is beating very fast.

“Anyway, it's nice," he finishes lamely. "It’s really nice.”

Foggy exhales, stunned.

“That’s incredible Matt” he says. “That’s how you experience the world?”

Matt has explained certain areas of his abilities to them before - the aspects of how he fights, how he navigates, how he could tell how much liquid to pour into mugs. He’d never described anything like this, though.

Matt laughs sweetly at Foggy's amazement.

“It’s much less nice when it’s not boreal forest.”

“I bet” Foggy replies simply. He thinks of the city, the smell of hot garbage and the writhing of bodies in the street and the cacophony of voices and the buzzing of AC units and-

Yeah, no wonder Matt has bad days.

They make it to the campsite with Matt only having to guide them through the darkness for the last mile or so. They all hold onto each other’s shoulders in a line like primary school students on a field trip, Karen shoving Foggy in front of her so she can take up the rear. Foggy has to breathe very carefully to keep control over his heartbeat as Matt’s stupid shoulder muscles roll under his hand.

Karen keeps sticking a foot out to make Foggy trip and stumble, forcing him to grab onto Matt for support.

The trip’s coming to an end soon – she has to lay it on thick whilst she still has time.

To add insult to kicked ankles, Foggy has to press a five dollar bill into Matt's hand when they eventually arrive safely, as Karen gleefully flips him off in some kind of exhausted victory dance. Foggy has to work hard to make himself look annoyed.

He really fucking loves these idiots. 

Karen gets a fire going with efficient and practiced motions, thus enabling her and Foggy to do the majority of the tent setting up in the light that it casts. Matt pretends to be annoyed at being left out. 

“You just don’t have the gift, Murdock” Karen teases, as he sets about boiling water for their freeze-dried pasta sachet dinner.

“I should have left you both in the woods” he mutters, though he has to fight to keep a grin off his face.

“Then who’d have set up the tent?” Foggy quips.

“I could do it, at a push” Matt protests. His voice lacks any real conviction though - he knows he couldn't. Karen and Foggy both know it too. 

“Explain to me what a rain fly is” Karen challenges.

“Fuck you guys. You want broccoli and cheese or cheese and ham?”  

Karen remembers a trick about heating large stones around the fire so you can take them to bed, hot water bottle style. Matt’s incredibly pleased about this being a thing, and quickly scrounges three large, smooth rocks from the nearby stream.

There's no logs to sit on this time, but the ground is dry and their limbs too knackered to care, so they flop down on the grass and slowly regain their energy through too salty pasta and the burning heat of the fire.  

"Stay where you are" Foggy announces suddenly, once his pouch of pasta is empty and his feet are starting to hurt from the heat. He drags himself up to stack a couple items into a makeshift camera stand, propping his phone up and fiddling with the settings to set a timer. Karen and Matt resolutely do not stay where they are, sitting up in confusion. Karen groans theatrically once she realises what he's doing.

"What? What's he doing?" Matt questions around a mouthful of pasta.

"He's setting up his phone to take a picture."

"Oh family portrait, sweet" Matt grins, safely putting his food aside.

"Traitor" Karen mutters, though she shuffles towards Matt to make room for Foggy in the frame nonetheless.

"Go!" Foggy yells, running back to throw himself down on Karen's other side.

Karen slings an arm around the both of them, dragging their heads together. They all beam wide and full, half-delirious with happiness and exhaustion and unbridled love. The camera flashes, the memory is captured, and they dissolve into a raggedy three-way hug. 

Just before they pile into the tent for the night Matt slips off to take a quiet meander back to the stream. He wants to have another moment to decompress, and to listen to the water babbling and the bats whipping about hunting midges.

Karen gives Foggy a nudge with her elbow when she notices Matt's absence, nodding her head towards the stream.

"Go and talk to him."

"About what?" Foggy asks, suspicious.

"Whatever you want" Karen shrugs lightly, before dropping down to crawl into the tent. She zips the door shut firmly behind her. Foggy flounders nervously for a while after that, needlessly stacking pans and organising rubbish, making sure their rocks are still heating on the fire embers. He eventually gives himself a mental shove, taking a deep breath and setting his shoulders in determination. For what exactly, he doesn't know. But he knows it's a confident posture situation, that's for sure.  

"Hey buddy."

Foggy approaches the stream carefully, trying not to a stumble in the dark. He sits down close-but-not-to-close to Matt on the pebbles of the stream bank. Matt's sat with his knees pulled up and arms wrapped loosely around them, chin propped up and face to the sky. His eyes are wide and flitting again, and Foggy quickly notices the bats he must be listening to.

"Hey" Matt replies, a little hesitant. 

"You okay?" Foggy asks, suddenly concerned. Matt's quiet, not quite sombre, but there's definitely a reserved quality about him right now. He looks nervous.

"Yeah, I'm okay" Matt assures, voice soft and light and true. Foggy nods at the reply, relaxing. They sit together in peaceful silence for a while, both savouring their own sensory interpretations of the night. The air is cold and damp, but not too bone chilling just yet. The sounds and smells of the stream fill the air, the soft whisper of pine needles in the breeze ever present in the distance.

Matt breaks the quiet all of a sudden, voice a lot stronger.

"I've had a really good time on this trip, Foggy."

Matt's face is drenched in gloom; it's incredibly dark this far into the middle of nowhere. The moon isn't particularly bright tonight, but Foggy still revels in the way Matt's face is lit pale and ethereal by it, the way the light still glints and flickers in his eyes. Foggy once again has the thought that Matt might be the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

"Yeah. Yeah me too, Matt" he manages to make himself reply, voice hoarse. He's very distracted. 

Matt turns to face him at the words. He's got that little smile on his face again, the one that makes Foggy feel like it's just him and Matt together in the universe.

Foggy returns the smile, a little stronger so he knows Matt will be able to sense the movement. They're teetering on the edge here, perched on a river bank under a pale moon and the flitting of bats. Foggy once again thinks that he must be living in a fairy-tale.

A loud splash startles them both, their heads whipping in unison to the sound.

"The hell was that?" Foggy yelps. He's not exactly scared of the dark, but he is scared of unknown things coming at him in the dark. As all reasonable people should be, he thinks. Super senses or not. 

But Matt's got his head cocked, slowly tracking something in the water. 

"Frog" he concludes, turning to Foggy with a laugh.

The moment's gone, the electricity in the air dissipating around them. Foggy shakes his head at the absurdity of it all, and they wish the frog good night before hauling themselves up and back to camp.

Karen's head pops up from the pile of sleeping bags as Foggy unzips the tent. She only needs to meet his eye for a second before she's tutting in exasperation, head dropping back down.

"Pussy."

"Shut up. You want your fire rock or what?"

Chapter Text

Kids in love, living for each other
That's the first taste and no one will recover

They unanimously decide to book hotel rooms, that second morning waking up in the tent. Just so they’re fresh to travel back, they say. So they don’t sour the car with their combined stink, is all.

Karen books them, because Foggy and Matt haven’t learnt their lesson to always stay alert and suspicious of her actions, and because they’re too distracted bitching about the cold to notice her doing it.

They hike out that morning towards the nearest village that has a bus stop listed on google maps, all of them ready to savour their last real walk of the holiday. The sun is bright and the air warm and fragrant, just enough of a breeze going to make fluffy clouds skid across the sky. Textbook, idyllic hiking weather.

They follow a logging track through abandoned forestry pines, the carefully spaced rows now disguised by overgrown undergrowth; brambles tangling around loping ferns, banks of fresh-growth heather and great stands of fireweed shedding their downy seeds into the wind. Matt soaks in the smell of dry, disturbed earth and bark thick with mosses and lichens, all amongst the heady background of pine resin and needles and cones and fresh air.

It’s no more than a few miles to the village and they take their time walking, allow themselves the luxury of ambling slowly and hanging about taking in the views, and to stop and look for the birds that Matt points out in the treetops. They watch little flittering goldcrests amongst the gloom of tight-knit branches, and the powerful, looming forms of crows sitting watching them from the treetops. Every now and again Matt gives a quiet warning of ‘raptor’, and the three of them point their faces to the sky and track the sweeping arcs of buzzards and kites circling on rising thermals.

Matt tells them which birds have spotted them, picking up the twitching of muscles as they tilt their heads this way and that to investigate the novel presences in their usually quiet territory.

The ‘village’ turns out to be little more than a cluster of wooden buildings and a general store, with one dilapidated churchyard and a collection of industrial looking machinery. They grab questionable sandwiches and disgustingly delicious vending machine coffees from the store (stared at brazenly by the clerk and patrons the entire time), before catching the first of their mishmash of buses that are to take them to the town with their hotel.

Their cheap, dubious, most-likely-haunted hotel. It’s creaky and moth-eaten and smells of decade old carpet, but it has lukewarm showers and flowery bedsheets and complimentary soap.

It’s divine.

Except for the fact that Karen has a single, and Matt and Foggy have a double. As they find out only once she’s safely squirrelled away to her own room, and they open the door to their one, singular bed.

To say the silence is awkward is an understatement. Foggy thinks he’d quite like to melt into the decrepit hallway carpet right about now.

“You starting to feel like maybe Karen’s had an agenda for this trip?” Matt asks quietly.

Foggy doesn’t know how to reply. That’s the closest they’ve ever come to admitting it out loud between them. All the breath leaves his chest, his stomach writhing with butterflies, of all things.

Karen’s right. He is a pussy.

“She’s not very subtle” he manages to choke out, moving away from the warmth of Matt’s presence beside him to pretend to check out the tea station (it’s just a tray with an electric kettle, two stained mugs and a smattering of teabags, but Foggy thinks it’s good enough to constitute a thorough examination anyway).

“They’ve given us Earl Grey,” he says, voice too high, “that’s a curveball.”

Matt snorts in reply, head shaking in amusement as he dumps his bags in a corner.

“Score.”

Foggy’s incredibly disconcerted by how composed he seems to be at the situation.

Matt would have loved a single room, if only to have some privacy to scream into a pillow in frustration.

But apart from that, he’s quietly glad for Karen pulling one last ruse. Because it’s their final night in this sweet little bubble of holiday freedom, where the real world doesn’t apply and Foggy’s voice is so golden and warm and he’s so quick to laugh and so ready to sling an arm around Matt’s shoulder and pull him in close.

Matt doesn’t think he can keep it together it much longer. 

But he resolutely cannot make the first move, is the thing. He’s too much of scared little wimp to do it (Karen’s words, drunkenly hissed at him that one night on the balcony as Foggy was serenading him with Kate Bush).

Mostly though, he’s just shit terrified of doing anything that might endanger his freshly repaired friendship with Foggy. The fact that Foggy is still in his life, still wants even a friendship with him, astounds Matt so entirely. He can’t bring himself to take the risk, can’t think of how he’d be able to live without Foggy's amicable affection if it all went sour.

Even if Matt thinks he might spontaneously burst into flames sometimes, from trying to suppress the urge to jump him.

Lying next to each other that night, the energy between them is different; it’s the first time they’ve been properly alone together for any extended period on this trip, and both of them are pretty sure they know what the other one is thinking about. There’s an awareness in the room that night.

It’s also a very small double bed. Withered and shrunken by age, in all likelihood.

Neither of them are falling asleep.

Both of them are hyperaware of how close the other is.

Foggy breaks first.

“What are we doing here, Matt?” he murmurs into the dark, eyes fixed determinedly on the ceiling.

Matt turns his head to Foggy just slightly. When he speaks, Foggy can tell there’s no casual grin on his face, no hint of the usual light-hearted teasing underlying his tone. His voice is quiet and serious.

“Stalling.”

Nothing happens that night. They both eventually drift off amongst the quiet, Foggy listening to Matt’s breathing and Matt listening to Foggy’s.

Foggy wakes first, as is usual. Matt’s hand is gripping his wrist, pulling his hand in close against his chest. As is becoming usual.

Foggy doesn’t want to move. Instead he lies still, leaving his hand where it is, waiting for Matt to wake. He lies and he thinks and he panics, he calms down and then he panics again. He reckons the wildly erratic pattern of his heartrate must twig Matt’s subconscious somehow, because Matt starts to wake soon after his second round of calming down. Foggy watches him drag himself into consciousness vaguely and slowly. He watches as he gains enough grip on his surroundings to clock Foggy watching him. Foggy watches how he smiles softly when he does.

Still, nothing happens that morning.

They meet Karen at the breakfast bar downstairs. She takes one look at them and shakes her head, astounded.

“Seriously? Jesus fucking Christ you guys are useless.”

Foggy flounders, spluttering in protest as Matt laughs next to him. That’s now the closest they’ve ever come to admitting it out loud.

They get a booth together and drink real filter coffee and order a cooked breakfast.

It’s still a nice end to their holiday.

The fourth rental company they’d called last night had agreed to bring a car out to the town, thank Matt’s almighty lord. It’s going to be a long time until they’re ready to take any type of bus ever again.

Karen has to sort out the paperwork before they can set off, so Foggy goes out to join Matt in waiting in the unkempt beer garden out the back. It’s still early enough in the morning that the air is cold and heavy with damp, birds still singing sweetly from the woodland surrounding the town. Matt’s leaning against a decaying Arbor thick with years’ worth of climbing plants and tall, grasping weeds. Foggy has to pause at the sight - Matt's framed with lightly yellowing leaves and late summer flowers, his face tipped to the morning sun, hands in his pockets. Foggy takes a deep, calming breath.

A thought is unfurling in his mind, small and hushed and unsure.  

“Hey dude.”

“Hey” Matt replies lightly, shoulders straightening and face brightening as Foggy joins him. He’d been out here feeling mildly sorry for himself that they were headed home, holiday over, no ground-breaking changes in relationships to be had. He’d been vaguely plotting how he might collaborate with Karen to get him and Foggy trapped in a room together for some reason.

“Well, hasn’t this just been astoundingly delightful” Foggy offers. His voice comes out slightly warbled with nerves, but he thinks he does an alright job of keeping it from sounding too high pitched. Small mercies.  

His mind’s still on that little expanding idea. The one that’s growing stronger and brighter, more solid and tangible. More real.

“Yeah,” Matt agrees happily, “it’s been pretty nice.”

There’s something about this moment, this stop-gap in time as they wait for their ride home, that makes Foggy so completely not-afraid anymore. Something about the light maybe, all pale golden and yellow, or something about Matt, looking the sunniest he’s looked for a long, long time.

Or it could also be Karen, blatantly calling them out in a hotel breakfast bar before 9am.

But that little idea isn’t hushed and doubtful anymore. It’s obvious, brazen, perfect.

Foggy’s no longer unsure. He’s very, very sure.

“Hey-“

Matt turns to him, eyebrows raised lightly in question.

Breaking that quiet moment of limbo, Foggy leans forward to close the distance between them and press a soft kiss to Matt’s lips, hand coming up to rest along his jaw.

Matt makes a little noise of surprise before Foggy feels a smile against his lips, a hand at his side.  

It only lasts a moment, before Foggy’s pulling away again and searching Matt’s face for a response, heart hammering absurdly hard against his ribcage. He’s still sure, but that doesn’t mean he’s not vibrating with nervousness and a steady stream of ‘oh-my-fucking-god-holy-shit-what-the-fuck’.

Matt’s left stunned and pink cheeked. He finds himself frozen for a moment, processing, before he’s smiling like a loon and closing the gap again, hand sliding to the back of Foggy’s head to pull him into a kiss that’s a lot less soft and sweet.

Yeah, fairy-tale.

They break apart the second time significantly more out of breath than the first. Foggy rests his forehead against Matt’s for a moment, revelling in the action.

“That went well.”

If Foggy could headbutt himself, he would. Why can he not muster even a little bit of charm, just a single crumb of smooth-talking ability.

But Matt’s laughing sweetly in reply, pulling away to giggle ludicrous and delightful and so relieved.  

“Yeah, that went well” he agrees, still beaming.

Matt’s head cocks suddenly to the side then, eyes narrowing as he listens in on something back in the hotel.

“Paperwork’s finished” he murmurs.  

Foggy lets out a loaded exhale, willing his legs to stop being made from jelly.

“Time to go home then, I guess.”

Chapter Text

But if I'm being honest it feels like each moment is loving at first sight
Oh, I love how your looking looks inside

Karen’s so preoccupied with sorting out the car and their bags and their GPS route that she doesn’t spare them a glance as they join her out the front. Noticing their window of opportunity, Matt and Foggy wordlessly shove usher each other into the car whilst her back is turned.

Karen eventually joins them, none the wiser - she’s incredibly tired. She’d also waved goodbye to all hope of the two of them getting together on this trip when they’d come down from their private hotel room still carefully distanced and awkward looking.

She’s vaguely thinking about locking them in the conference room overnight, just to see what happens.

Sitting on the news in the car ride back feels like delicious payback after Karen’s week of tricks and deceit. Although the secret is only successfully kept because Foggy is sitting in the back this time and had fallen asleep within the first 20 minutes of the drive.

He’s also incredibly tired.

It’s been a big week.

Matt makes Karen drop Foggy off first, because he knows if Foggy’s left in the car with her alone he’ll crack like porcelain under a work boot before he can ever make it back to his apartment.

They're not hiding it from her maliciously, it's just a little bit of karma, a little vindication.

They're also both way too stunned by the event to handle talking about it just yet. 

Foggy’s very, very happy to be back in the warmth and comfort of a building. Especially one that doesn’t feel like it could collapse with a good door slam. He takes the most immaculate shower of his life, makes proper coffee, and retires to the sofa to wait for Matt to get in touch.

He’d made the first move - he’s all out of bravery to make the second.

Foggy doesn’t have to wait long.

Matt turns up on his fire escape not two hours later, tapping a quiet melody on the glass (which startles Foggy anyway). Foggy crosses the room to open the window and let him swing inside, tutting.

“This is exactly what mangy alley tomcats do, you know that right? What’s so wrong with the door?”

“Less romantic” Matt shrugs, all charming smile and cocksure grin as he straightens up.

“Right,” Foggy mock-agrees, “my mistake. Nothing says romance like scuttling down the side of my building like a beetle.”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m saying?” Matt replies, feigning confusion. 

Foggy shoves at his head in a familiar move of fond exasperation. Because yeah, okay, Foggy would be lying if he said he didn’t find it a little bit romantic - only Matt would ever do that for him. Foggy briefly marvels at how this is his life now, apparently. The rising tide of change to their dynamic is both dizzying and exhilarating, and not that much of a change at all.

Matt interrupts his thoughts, his voice light. 

“I would like to kiss again, if that's okay.”

A surprised laugh bubbles up from Foggy at the proposition. He takes a moment to revel in the fact that he can, now, before he’s rounding on Matt to drag him in.

Matt thinks he could kiss Foggy forever. Foggy is following a very similar thought process, but the sudden memory it brings up makes him pull away, grinning.

“You remember me hitting on you within 30 seconds of us meeting?” It’s Matt’s turn then to have a laugh startled out of him by the unexpected words. “Could have saved us a decade, Murdock, all I’m saying.”

“I’d literally just arrived!” Matt begins to protest, “I hadn’t even taken my shoes off.”

“Oh, you into that?” Foggy teases.

“Fuck around and find out” Matt quips back.

“Trust me, it’s on the agenda.”

Foggy makes them tea. Because after the burst of boldness that comeback had taken he’d panicked, stuttered out something about breakfast tea, and wheeled around into host mode to escape the decidedly sly look Matt had responded with.

Now they’re sat side by side on the sofa, mugs in hands, a careful inch of space between them.

“So, what do we do now?” Foggy says, mildly bemused at the situation he’s created here. He’d naively thought that the nervous sidestepping would lessen after they’d crossed the first hurdle - apparently he was wrong. Foggy reluctantly acknowledges that he's still nervous because there's so much left unsaid between them yet, because now that they have crossed that first hurdle, they have to deal with things.

“What do you wanna do?” Matt grins, eyebrows raising suggestively.  

“No, c’mon, stop it dickhead” Foggy replies soberly, “we need to sort this out.”

Matt’s teasing halts immediately, head tipping in confusion instead. 

“Sort what out?” 

“Your emotional vulnerability issues” Foggy replies bluntly, unsure of how else to word that.

Matt snorts.

“Thanks.”

“I’m serious, Matt,” Foggy sighs, “if we’re gonna do this, we need to sort some stuff out first.”

Foggy needs to know that Matt understands the level of trust needed in a partner- from a partner. He needs to hear Matt face up to this part of himself, to hear his commitment to improving this part of himself. 

“Yeah, I know” Matt agrees, reluctant but earnest. He knows talking like this is necessary for them to move forward, even if his stomach is coiling with indescribable feelings of anxiousness. “Shoot.”

“Okay, so here's the thing,” Foggy starts, setting his mug down to turn and face Matt fully, “we do this, I need you to understand that we’re in this together, Matt. You can’t hide things from me anymore, at all. From me or Karen, actually. No more secret injuries or mysterious plans, no more unspoken feelings left to ferment and bite us in the ass later. I can’t do it Matt, I just can’t” he finishes softly.

Matt's heart aches at the weight behind Foggy’s words, the amount of hurt that interlaces them. He knows then, that this is his one chance. That there’s no option here for him not to do this - he needs to deal with all the junk in his head that he’s shoved to the back and let fester, the stuff that makes him instinctively hold people at an arm’s length.

He’s been ignoring those things for long enough; he's let it cause enough misery and pain. That has to end, now. 

The deep breath he forces himself to take works to calm his mind a little, and he turns to face Foggy in a mirror of his position. He wants the sincerity of his reply to be felt fully. 

“You’re right, you're right and I'm sorry, Foggy, for everything I've done in opposition of that. I’m going to sort this, from here on out. Properly sort this. No more hiding injuries, no more secrets. I promise. For real this time” he adds remorsefully. 

“And not just the stuff I ask about,” Foggy warns, although he's already beginning to feel the crushing weight lift from his chest. He hadn't realised just how much he'd needed to hear those words from Matt, and know them to be true, that he really means what he says. “You gotta tell me stuff, unprompted, when there’s things going on. You get that, right?”

“Yeah, I get that.” Matt assures. He's going to have to actively practice that part the most, he thinks, offering up his soul so vulnerably. But he's willing to do the work to force himself, to practice and to face head-on the uncomfortableness of that action until it becomes automatic and familiar in the way that it is for Foggy. “I just don’t want you to worry," Matt finds himself adding, "I know I say it too much, but it’s because it’s true. I’m not going to stop, and it's going to worry you, so where’s that going to leave us?”

Foggy exhales, the action long and drawn out and purposeful. It works to keep his heart beating steadily; he thinks they're doing a pretty good job of this, all things considered. 

“I’ve accepted that you’re not going to stop, Matt. I know that this is who you are - begrudgingly, because yeah, your shit makes me worry about you, but that’s just how it is. It's no one's fault, and that's not going to change down the line. What causes me way more worry is not knowing whether there’s worse things going on with you that you’re hiding from me. It’s worse to not know what’s going on than to know that you have a mild knife wound to the abdomen.”

Matt's chuckle is only a little sad. Foggy's right - it's no one's fault, but it does suck. He gets what Foggy's saying though, and he's grateful for the reassurance that the worry isn't going to turn into resentment in the future. Foggy feels the tension between them alleviating and carries on, encouraged.  

“Just- no more lunatic, self-sacrificing risk taking okay? I know what you do will always be risky, but no more guns, no more armies of ninjas. No more shit that's beyond the scope of your fists. It's not your responsibility, and you have people that care about you - you need to comprehend the effects your actions have in our lives. Because you're a massive fucking part of them, Matt.”

Matt’s not expecting the lump forming in his throat. It's really starting to sink in, the truth behind those words. It's actually cementing in his head that he’s not alone in this world anymore. He's known it logically for a long time (Foggy's explained it to him a hundred times over, showed him with actions and gestures and crushing hugs), but he's never really understood it. It's never felt true.

Until now, after this week of blissful holiday wrapped up in his friends and their unbridled love. Until he's sat on Foggy's couch and he's still holding a cup of tea he'd been made as they discuss their future relationship together. 

“Yeah, I understand" is all he can manage in reply, voice hoarse and choked off. Foggy notices the change, and decides it's best to call it a day. Better to ease into the emotionally draining conversations of figuring out how to date someone; to pace themselves, as it were.  

“Okay. Okay, I think that’s enough for tonight. We've had a good first pass” he says lightly. And it's true - Matt's complete lack of resistance is mildly suspicious, and he's sure some arguments are coming, but the truth in Matt's words rings strong, echoes with the promise that he's willing to change, to listen and respond and work with Foggy on this. That's all he needs, tonight.

They'll hammer out the details later, once their romantic involvement has gone beyond the 24 hour mark. For now, there's different priorities. 

“You wanna order some dinner? The Indian place on the corner always does good deals.” 

“Sure" Matt nods, still not quite trusting himself to speak. He does feel better, now that he's getting control back over his breathing. Lighter, he feels. He wonders if this is the 'sharing your feelings helps, Matt' that Foggy always seems to talk about. 

“Thank you, Matt. I know this stuff's not easy for you" Foggy pokes. It's an understatement - he knows Matt's reluctance to be vulnerable isn't for trivial reasons.

It's on the list of things they need to talk about. 

“I dealt with the ninjas, I can deal with this” Matt tries to joke, voice strengthening. He has dealt with ninjas, and he can deal with this.

“That's the weird spirit” Foggy replies heartily, bumping his shoulder against Matt's. “C’mon then, order us curry so we can make out some more before it arrives."

"Now we're talking" he replies, grin beginning to return. Matt pushes off the couch to ring in their usual order from the kitchen, and to take a moment to breathe deep and steady. 

He quietly lets the restaurant know that there's no need to rush their delivery.

Chapter Text

Lying on my side you were half awake
And your face was tired and crumpled
If I had a camera I’d snap you now

Matt ends up staying for the night, although he manages to remain mostly fully clothed. He has sweats at Foggy’s (because of course he does) and after a delectable first meal back amongst civilisation they get changed for bed and curl up together - properly, for the first time. Matt, finally able to go ham, burrows into Foggy’s side with zeal. He falls asleep with his head tucked into the crook of Foggy’s neck, legs intertwined and hand on his chest, right on top of his heart. Foggy gathers his arms around the pile of Matt wrapped around him, feeling like there’s a good chance he might burst from happiness anytime now.

Foggy still finds himself awake long after Matt’s breathing has turned deep and even though. Despite the newfound peace in his soul at finally having Matt asleep in his arms (‘cause holy shit), he’s struggling to relax enough to fall asleep himself. It’s hard to sleep when you’re thrumming with the giddy combination of happiness and panic and excitement and constantly having to battle a smile off of your face.

He ends up having to carefully and reluctantly extract himself from Matt’s grip around 2am to use the bathroom.

Matt, predictably, remains completely out of it.

He rings Karen from the bathroom; he’d gotten caught in a loop staring dumbfounded into the mirror for too long, steadily working himself into a state of panic-excitement-disbelief-oh-my-god-I-can’t-keep-this-in-anymore.

“Foggy? What’s happening, what’s wrong?” Karen answers, picking up on the second ring. He can hear a duvet shuffling as she sits up, concerned. Because oh yeah, that is the normal response when your friend’s a vigilante and you get an unexpected call in the night. Foggy feels a twinge of guilt.

“No, it’s okay, it’s good news” he quickly reassures.  

There’s a beat of silence.

“You’re kidding me.”

“Nope” Foggy confirms, trying to play it somewhat cool and not sound too obviously gleeful.

What Foggy can only describe as hag-like cackling echoes back down the phone at him.

“Fucking finally, Nelson!” Karen crows, immediately following with a demand for “details. Now.”

Foggy obliges easily.

“So your hotel room trap didn’t work- thanks for that though, shithead. I jumped him in the beer garden whilst you were sorting out the rental car stuff. He was surrounded by greenery and morning light, it just felt right. He kissed me back.”

“Oh you bastard,” comes Karen's hissed response, “that whole drive back, you guys were just sitting on that?”

“Yep” Foggy replies proudly. “Payback.”

Karen’s a little outraged, but honestly she's mostly just impressed - she hadn't clocked any kind of suspicious activity in the car, naively attributing Matt’s strange cheeriness to the satisfaction of a good holiday completed.

“So why are you calling me now- wait. Did you guys do it?”

“No, wind your neck in” Foggy chides, before considering for a moment. “It was a close call though. He crawled in through my fire escape this evening. We had a talk.”

“And some smooching?” 

“And some smooching” Foggy confirms solemnly. 

“What did you talk about?”

“Matt having the emotional vulnerability of someone from the 1950’s.”

“Good move. It go well?”

“He’s asleep in my bed right now, so yeah, I’d say it went well.”

“I thought you said you didn’t fuck?”

“We didn’t, we cuddled and fell asleep.”

Karen makes a sound of light disgust.

“You’re sickening.”  

“Hey!” Foggy laughs, “I thought you’d be all supportive of us talking about our feelings first.”

Karen sighs, conceding. She is incredibly pleased they’re going about this in a proper way, because if they ever to start arguing in the office she absolutely will not be able to keep herself out of it. She’s also relieved that the two of them will stop dancing around each other now, that the pining, forlorn looks will turn warm and adoring instead - slightly less unbearable to deal with. She's also wildly smug though; her plan did work, eventually. A fact she'll be making very well known to them over the next few weeks.

But mostly, she's just excited for them, excited for way their little trio is going to grow and develop with this new change in dynamic. When she speaks again, it’s with a much warmer tone.

“I am, Foggy, really. You did good, Matt’s lucky to have you.”

Foggy smiles at the words, warmth blooming in his chest. Looking back into the mirror again he feels a lot less volatile and unsure, a lot calmer.

“Damn right he is,” Foggy agrees, voice strong, “I’m gonna make him breakfast and everything. I’m starting my homesteading phase.”

“I can’t wait to see you in an apron.”

“I’ll invite you over for brunch and a gossip sometime.” Foggy's mostly serious, and quite excited by the prospect. 

“Please do. Now fuck off and let me sleep, and have fun in the morning” Karen finishes lightly, voice turning teasing again.

“Gross. Goodnight, asshole.”

“Night dickhead.”

Foggy does manage to wake Matt up crawling back into bed, by trying to gently wriggle his way back into his arms.

“What?” Matt mumbles, head snapping up from his pillow, but not quite yet lucid.  

“Nothing, it’s okay,” Foggy reassures quietly, taking the opportunity to wrap himself back up in Matt’s limbs. Matt obliges easily. “Couldn’t sleep, panic called Karen with excitement, you know how it is.”

Matt chuckles gently. Foggy can feel his breathe on his neck.

He still doesn't quite believe this is real. 

“I am very exciting.” 

“An understatement. Go back to sleep.”

Chapter Text

A week or so after their return and they've managed to come satisfyingly full circle: they're back at Josie’s again, all crammed onto one side of a booth as they go through photos from the trip. The majority come from Karen and Foggy’s phones, but Foggy also has a stack of developed prints from the disposable cameras he’d been surreptitiously using throughout the week.

The evening encompasses the three of them getting steadily hammered, Karen and Foggy narrating the photos to Matt with increasing zeal. Matt has an arm slung over the back of the booth, Foggy taking full advantage of the set up to lean himself into his side.

All of them are feeling exceptionally warm and light, and not just because there’s an excellent offer on eel bottles tonight.

The first pictures are a fun series of Matt asleep in the backseat during the drive up, curled into various positions as he clearly sleeps through the entire journey. They begin with him balled up in the grey of dawn, continuing on to illustrate him unfurling and re-curling into various unpredictable positions, the day becoming lighter and scenery changing to lush green through the window.

A final one from this set is a gleeful selfie from Foggy, Matt sitting crossed legged in the background with his head tipped back till it’s almost out of view between the headrest and the window.  

“This one’s genuinely impressive” Foggy explains, “you look like when puppies eat too much kibble and pass out all ragdoll like.”

“Aw c’mon,” Matt tries to rally in defense, “it was 5am, I was exhausted.”

“No excuse buddy” Foggy laughs, “people get up at 5am all the time, you just lack a circadian rhythm."

“What do you expect?” Matt shrugs, “I work two jobs.”

Next up are the ones from their first days walking around the town. Most of them are taken by strangers on Foggy’s film camera - multiple pictures of the smiling trio, arms around each other as they pose in front of trailhead signs and picturesque views.

The one from this set that Foggy takes greatest care in describing is of Karen. She’s got a brand-new cap on, a sky blue one that sports an embroidered buzzard soaring above the name of the town. Her ponytail swings from the back of it, blurred, as she turns to face Foggy in a candid shot, eyes full of mirth and lit brightly by the morning sunlight.

The beautiful shot is immediately followed by another film picture from the morning after that walk, this time of Matt.

“Aw, look-“ Foggy pretends to sigh wistfully, “it’s Matt’s first hangover of the trip.”

Karen snorts with laughter as Foggy passes the picture to her.

“Shit, how bad is it?” Matt groans.

The picture shows Matt asleep on sofa. He’s curled up on his side in obvious misery, wearing Foggy’s sweatshirt and mismatched socks. There’s a plate with nibbled toast and half a mug of coffee abandoned on the coffee table. Foggy’s in the background wrapped in an apron.

“It’s excellent” Karen corrects, “you’re on the sofa wearing Foggy’s clothes, Foggy’s in the background making us lunch - he’s wearing an apron with a pine tree ID guide printed on it, by the way. You look like you have one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel.”

“Ah, okay, so pretty standard” Matt concedes. He senses Foggy turning to look at him then, and knows exactly the sort of smile that must be adorning his face. Matt makes sure his resultant grin is filled with as much love and affection as he can muster.

Foggy’s heartrate makes a satisfying uptick and he turns quickly back to the photos, so Matt thinks it must have landed.

Foggy singing Kate Bush up at them in the dark, only his face properly lit; he looks like a weird little cryptid on the lawn.  

A picture taken shortly after from back inside - Matt standing on the balcony listening intently, elbows leaning on the railing. Karen had made sure to take the picture from just enough of an angle to be able see the completely besotted look on his face.

Matt one morning, stood bewildered in the kitchen and holding a coffee cup in each hand. It looks like a poor quality Petfinder picture of a particularly down on it's luck cat.

Karen looking radiant in loungewear, hair tied up scruffily as she sits on a breakfast bar stool with one leg up on another, crossword book balanced on her knee. She has her eyes raised to the camera, a small smile on her face. She still looks mildly devious, despite the sweet, golden aura of the scene.

Next come the pictures from the camping portion of the trip.

They’re definitely Foggy’s favourites - the majority of them are of Matt. 

Matt napping in the woods at lunch, shoes off, stretched out languidly on Karen’s raincoat with his arms crossed behind his head.

Matt doing a handstand on a boulder, face to the camera with an upside-down grin.

Matt and Foggy stood side by side at the viewpoint, talking quietly and sporting soft smiles.

Matt’s head popping out from a sleeping bag, looking absolutely wrecked.

Karen crouched on the ground amongst the morning dew, a puffy coat over her pyjamas and firelighter in her hands as she expertly coaxes the embers back to life.  

Foggy half-awake sitting on an upturned stump of wood, forkful of porridge halfway to his mouth as he gazes vaguely off into the distance. Matt’s bent knee pops up at the bottom of the frame in this one, from where he’d lain down to sleep again after eating.

“You really do nap an inordinate amount of time for someone who co-owns a law firm” Karen points out astutely. Foggy snorts in amusement.

“Why do you think his office door is always closed – our reputation would be even more non-existent if clients kept seeing him passed out at his desk. He's a nightmare” Foggy adds fondly.

“Should have thought about what you were getting into before you agreed to co-own a law firm with me” Matt teases in reply.

The comment makes Foggy falter a little though, as Karen turns her attention back to her phone.

He shifts to look at Matt again, who dips his head sideways in acknowledgement of the movement. Foggy lets his gaze linger on Matt’s face, takes in the look of contentment to him right now, the smile pulling at his lips. He lets his eyes wander downwards to the hand holding his beer, to the new bruises on his knuckles and the old scar on his forearm.

Foggy thinks he’s always known what he was getting into, really. He's always seen, always loved, both the good and the less-good parts of Matt  from the moment he spent too long shaking his hand in that dorm room.

The final picture of the lot is Foggy’s self-timer photo from their last night camping.

The three of them are piled together around the fire, scraggly and exhausted and dirty, but so happy. Matt’s wearing two hoodies layered on top of each other, as well as Karen’s scarf and a purple and yellow striped beanie hat that was probably Foggy’s, once. Foggy’s hair is tied up in a pineapple topknot with one of Karen’s scrunchies. Karen’s in the middle, smeared with soot and looping an arm around both of their necks, dragging the two of them into a loving stranglehold. They look invigorated, beaming wildly at the camera, their eyes glinting in the light of the fire.

They look like family.

They decide to get that final picture printed for the office. They order a large print and fork out an uncomfortable amount of money for it to be framed and engraved; neat gold letters and raised braille beneath, set on a shiny black plaque that Matt keeps going back to run his fingers over and over.

Nelson, Murdock and Page

First Annual Company Retreat