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Foggy's endured some pretty hard things in his life.
When Matt left his ass to the wind during Frank Castle's trial – that had been a challenge. In fact, it was one of the rougher moments of Foggy's career, to say nothing of how their friendship had suffered for a while after.
Then there was the time Matt spent weeks letting everyone think he was dead. That didn't help matters either.
There was the time Foggy and Marci decided to go on a break. She ended up taking a guy from his rival firm to their favorite restaurant, on their anniversary, and that – well, that was unforgivable. Until he found out she'd been plying the guy for information that would help Foggy win a tough case. And then they got back together, so in retrospect, it wasn't so bad.
Then Karen gets it into her head to go after some congressman – and then she gets shot. In the arm, but still. Foggy is horrified when he gets a call from the hospital. He wishes he could wrap his friends up in bubble wrap or something. One of these days, it won't just be the arm.
She'd listed Foggy as her emergency contact. A nurse speaks to him, then briefly puts Karen on the phone as they're wheeling her in.
Over the sound of call bells in the background, Karen tells him she's fine, and, "We got him, Foggy," which is the least of Foggy's concerns at the moment.
When he tells her as much, she brushes him off. And then she asks him to call Frank. As in Castle. As in Frank the Punisher Castle.
She gives him a number – she hadn't wanted Frank's contact info in any kind of traceable system – and Foggy doesn't ask. The less he knows, the better.
But then he has to do arguably the most terrifying thing in his life, which is to call Frank, and tell him that Karen's in the hospital.
"She's fine, but, um." Is that a squeak in his voice? He's definitely sweating, at any rate. "She's going in for emergency surgery. She's – it was just the arm, so—"
Frank hangs up without another word.
He shows up at Foggy's place within a half hour, carrying two paper shopping bags. He hands one to Foggy and says, without preamble, "Put these on."
"S-sorry?" Foggy says faintly. He reaches into his bag and pulls out black slacks, a collared khaki button-up with black pockets, a matching black tie, and a— "Wait. Is that a baton?"
This doesn't even end up being the most pressing question he has, because now Frank is stripping down to his boxers before Foggy's very eyes. Foggy stares, mystified, as Frank dons a bright orange jumpsuit, pulling out a pair of handcuffs before discarding the other bag.
"Where did you get these?" asks Foggy, still holding his outfit at arm's length in front of him.
"Party City," says Frank, without a hint of irony in his voice. He slaps a cuff on his wrist. "Post-Halloween discount."
"Right," says Foggy, like it's the most reasonable thing he's heard all day. "Of course." He subtly readjusts the baton, hoping by some offhand chance that Frank hasn't noticed him holding it upside down.
Frank closes the remaining cuff. He holds his hands deathly still in front of him, save for that twitch in his finger. "Take me in," he says curtly.
It seems futile to argue. Besides, Foggy's not about to let Karen wake up in the hospital alone.
He goes to his bathroom to change.
…
It's almost stupidly easy, sneaking Frank into the surgical unit.
Frank is – frankly – still terrifying despite being handcuffed. He's all beard and broad shoulders, and that dark, unblinking stare. Everyone who does a double-take at them in the lobby or the hall seems perfectly relieved to look the other way again as they pass.
The front desk person asks next to no questions, which is a little disappointing. Foggy had been prepared to go all lawyer-y on them, declaring that the DOC had granted permission for Mr. Castiglione to visit a sick relative scheduled for surgery today.
But the woman waves them through before Foggy's even produced the fake documents. She informs them that Ms. Page is already in the OR, and to wait for her in post-op.
Foggy gets them terrible coffee from the machine, which Frank holds in his cuffed hands without drinking. They find a corner to sit in that's relatively isolated, though it looks like they needn't have bothered. No one seems keen on sitting too close to them anyway, and Foggy, as much as he's bursting to say something, has no idea where to even start making small talk with the Punisher.
Frank stares wordlessly ahead at the double doors into the OR suite. Even without him moving a muscle, Foggy feels the tension crackling off of his body. He glances down at Frank's hands. There's a slight tremor in the coffee, rippling and rippling outward. It's the only sign that Frank's not sitting as still as he looks.
"Hey," Foggy says quietly. Any fear of saying the wrong thing to him is gone in an instant. He knows that look on Frank's face, what it means. What Karen must mean, to him. "She's going to be okay. The doctor said the wound wasn't bad."
For a moment, he doesn't think that Frank heard him. Then Frank gives a small nod. Foggy doesn't know if it's more for Frank's benefit or his. But then Frank lifts the cup to his mouth, and Foggy finally breathes a bit easier.
It's a good thing Frank's finished his coffee by the time Karen's brought out. The doors swing open, Karen's pale, sleeping face wheeling past them, and Foggy has to put a hand on Frank's arm to stop him from making any sudden movements. Their neighboring seatmates look wary enough as it is.
The surgeon stops by. He tells them the bullet was removed without any complications, and that Karen won't need more than a shoulder sling for the next couple of weeks.
"She's lucky it just missed the subclavian," says the surgeon cheerfully, not seeming to notice when Frank's face twitches into something truly dark. "Give it a few hours for the anesthesia to wear off," the surgeon finishes, then steps aside so Foggy can escort Frank behind the curtain to see her.
Frank's face is still pulled grimly together, but the tension seems to ease out of his shoulders a little. Karen's sleeping deeply, and the beep, beep, beep from the monitor is comfortingly steady. She looks small in the hospital bed, but she's going to be okay. She's going to be okay.
Frank takes her hand, the cuffs already tossed aside before Foggy's even fully registered their removal. Frank closes both his hands around her wrist, something both protective and searching about the gesture. Feeling her pulse, Foggy thinks. Like he needs the touch of it. Like he won't be reassured until he's felt it with both of his hands.
Finally, Frank draws away. He gives Foggy a single, curt nod.
There's not much room behind the curtains to wait, so Foggy drags a couple chairs over, stationing them just outside. He tugs the curtain open a crack so that she can see them when she wakes up.
He wonders if it's presumptuous of him, thinking Frank will want to stay. Maybe he has some people to punish. Foggy doesn't want to assume.
But Frank takes the seat next to him without saying a word.
He hasn't relaxed as much as Foggy might have expected. The cuffs are back on, but he's left the one around his right hand unfastened. His eyes keep scanning the room, lingering on all the doors and windows. He's angled his chair in front of the crack in the curtain. He's—
Keeping watch, Foggy realizes. Making sure no one else comes after Karen.
Foggy clears his throat. "More coffee?" he offers.
Frank inclines his head once. "Could use another one," he says gruffly.
Foggy's sure it disobeys at least a dozen CO protocols. But he goes to get Frank coffee all the same. It tastes a bit like he's dying inside; Foggy grimaces and dumps his own cup before making a fresh one for Frank, who hadn't seemed to mind the first one.
Frank nods his thanks when Foggy returns, and downs the second in two swallows.
Then again, Frank's tasted things much closer to actual death before. The coffee at least has to be a step up from that.
Foggy leans back in his seat and gets comfortable. He thinks about going downstairs to the lobby café for some real coffee, but it might turn a few heads if he leaves Frank unattended. He thinks about how Frank's real clothes are still on his couch, and he wonders how he'll explain that to Marci. It's not like Foggy owns any flannel.
Frank will probably want to change, come to think of it. Foggy imagines getting home won't be easy looking like someone who's just broken out of a prison. He wonders where home even is, for Frank. And then he sneaks a glance back at Karen, and thinks he might already know the answer.
Foggy closes his eyes, and tries to picture the expression on Marci's face when she sees them: Karen in her arm sling, probably still drowsy, while Frank and Foggy look like they've just stepped out of a very intense role play situation.
He sighs, and folds his arms across the baton to keep it from falling. In the grand scheme of things, it's probably not even the weirdest thing he's ever done for his friends.
…
When Foggy opens his eyes again, it takes several long seconds for him to remember where he is.
His foot has fallen asleep, all pins and needles when Foggy tries moving it. He feels a crick in his neck ache in protest, which makes sense considering he'd fallen asleep with his head at an angle, resting against something hard. And warm. And also smelling weirdly of Old Spice.
Foggy sits bolt upright in his chair.
Frank is still next to him, hands patiently cuffed in his lap, overall looking impassive as ever. But there's a damp spot on on his jumpsuit where Foggy's head has just been, and—
Oh. No. Oh no.
Not only did Foggy fall asleep on the Punisher's shoulder. He also drooled on the Punisher's shoulder. A lot.
Frank looks sideways at him, eyebrow raised.
"I. Um." Foggy hastily wipes at his mouth with a sleeve. "Sorry about that."
"'S'no problem," says Frank. While his face betrays nothing, Foggy detects something wry in his tone. "Least I could do."
"For what?" asks Foggy, bemused.
Frank starts to respond, but there's movement behind them, a soft rustling sound.
He's up and halfway over to her before Foggy's even done turning around. Through gaps in the curtain, Foggy sees Karen blink up at Frank, and smile.
"Hey." Frank's voice is a low rumble. "How you feeling?"
"Mm." Karen leans back in her pillow. Her arm is all bandaged, and she still looks quite sleepy, but there's an unmistakable light in her eyes as she gazes up at Frank. "I'm feeling like orange really isn't your color."
Frank shakes his head at her. "Yeah, yeah."
He takes her hand in both of his, handcuffs clinking as he lowers his mouth to her knuckles. "Thought I told you to leave that asshole alone."
"Yeah, yeah," Karen whispers. She tugs Frank closer for a real kiss this time, and Foggy decides to make himself scarce for a while.
He goes to fetch Karen some water, checking his phone and reading the news. He fields a couple of voice memos from Matt, who'd gotten sidetracked on his way to the hospital – two muggings, one of them involving a gun from the sound of it – and had to double back to change.
Foggy sends a hasty one back that says not to worry, that she's in good hands and he'll let Matt know when she gets released. Maybe he can drop off some soup later or something. After Foggy's had time to change, and maybe hide Frank in a guest room for a while.
Explaining their outfits to Marci is one thing. Explaining all this to Matt – it will take some easing into, and the prospect of it is about as appealing as going to prison himself, as far as Foggy is concerned.
…
When he returns with the water, he makes sure to clear his throat, gently announcing himself before peeling back one of the curtains.
Frank's got a hand cupped under her elbow, and she's tracing small patterns into his forearm as they talk quietly to each other. But Karen looks up when Foggy enters, another smile breaking across her face.
"Mm. Thank you," she says as he sets the water down next to her.
"The congressman's been taken into custody," Foggy informs her with a grin. "How's the arm holding up?"
"It hurts," says Karen, shrugging her good shoulder. "But it's worth it. Nice outfit, by the way." She squeezes Frank's hand and adds, a little mischievously, "Hope your inmate hasn't been giving you too much trouble."
"Let's just say Nelson makes a better lawyer than he does a CO," Frank replies, with his customary deadpan expression.
Foggy feels his face turn the slightest bit pink. "Thank you. I think."
Karen settles back into the bed, glancing between them. She looks tired but content. "Either I'm dreaming," she says, "or the pain meds they gave me really are that strong."
Frank lifts a brow, gaze sweeping skeptically around their makeshift room. Foggy's still holding his baton like he doesn't quite know what to do with it. At least Frank's pulling off his jumpsuit with ease, though Foggy supposes he did have some practice.
"This something you dream about often?" Frank wants to know. "Dressing us up in these costumes after getting yourself shot?" His expression starts to go all dark again, but Karen cuts him gently off.
"Do I dream about the people I care about most in the world getting along with each other? Yeah. I do." Karen bites back a small smile at the rascally look that Frank gives her. Then she gives the handcuffs a sly little tug. "These bad boys are just an added bonus for later."
Frank makes a coughing sound, head ducking sideways so Foggy can't quite make out his expression. But there's a definite flush to the back of Frank's neck, the tips of his ears turning red, and Foggy looks away before he sees anything else that might end up getting him killed.
The curtain opens behind him, and Foggy breathes a sigh of relief, grateful for the distraction.
"Oh, hey, Matt," says Foggy. He does a double take. "Wait – Matt? Did you not get my message?"
"I was already on my way," Matt replies. He must've clocked Frank's presence already, because the lines of his mouth are thinner than usual, and he has the look of a person who's just smelled something truly unpleasant.
But for Karen's sake and perhaps her sake alone, Matt gives Frank a short nod, which Frank returns with similar enthusiasm.
"Matt," Karen beams, like she's greeting a guest at a party. "You made it."
"Hey, Karen. Glad you're okay." Matt takes in his surroundings, tilting his head with a long, pregnant pause. Foggy stands there awkwardly, wishing he'd thought to put his baton down. He wonders how much Matt has gleaned. He would've heard the handcuffs, at least. Not to mention the plans Karen has for them later.
On second thought, this isn't awkward at all.
"I brought soup," Matt says finally. He holds up a plastic bag, a styrofoam container inside. "Foggy didn't mention coming in costume, though."
"How did you—?" Foggy shakes his head. "Never mind. To be fair, you were sort of in costume already," he points out, reasonably. "You were the one who insisted on changing."
Frank looks at Matt in his neatly pressed suit. "Sorry," he says, and his tone is just a touch sardonic. "That not also a costume?" But then his mouth pulls down on a shrug and he says, "Guess you can be the legal counsel, then."
Foggy can't tell if it's meant as a slight or some kind of peace offering. Probably a little of both.
"Yeah, I guess I can swing that," says Matt evenly.
"First time for everything," Frank replies. "Last one set the bar pretty high." He glances briefly in Foggy's direction and Foggy, ridiculously, has to fight an urge not to smile.
"Boys," sighs Karen. She pats the bed beside her and says, "Play nice. Have some soup."
And for Karen's sake, and perhaps her sake alone, the three of them squeeze in around her, and spend the next couple of hours doing just that.