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Foggy Nelson had a theory: everyone has a level of drunk where they were definitely drunk, but not in the way they were usually drunk. For instance, he was pretty relaxed when he was wasted—laughed too much, told stupid jokes, couldn’t remember how to say “lawyers” in Spanish. But, if you subtracted a drink or two, he got argumentative. One time at college, he got into a shouting match with a philosophy major. Matt had to drag him out of the bar.
Matt was similarly relaxed when drunk, got the spins, and laughed at every one of Foggy’s stupid jokes. Subtract a drink or two, and he got…sad. It was like watching a kicked puppy. Foggy was always sure that Matt either went big or stayed home. The hangover was worth not having to see Matt sitting in the corner, staring at his drink with that sad look on his face.
But Foggy couldn’t always be there to monitor Matt’s drinking (either encouraging him to stop or encouraging him to have another one, depending on the night). When he couldn't, things got sad, and they got sad really fast.
One new message.
“Hey, Foggy. It’s Matt. I…”
That was it. That was the whole message. Five words and then...
End of message. To repeat this message...
Foggy tried calling Matt back. No answer. After three unsuccessful attempts to call back, he made his way to Matt’s apartment. He hadn't seen Matt like this in a while, but he remembered it from college. Being alone was the last thing his friend needed right then. “Matt?” He knocked on the door. “Matt, buddy, it’s me. Is something wrong?”
There wasn’t an answer at first. Foggy was just starting to worry that Matt had done something stupid (not irreversible, but stupid) when the door opened. Matt was wearing battered sweatpants, a t-shirt, and fuzzy socks. “Hey, Foggy.” He was swaying. Definitely drunk.
“Hey.” Matt didn't move aside; Foggy was left to stand awkwardly in the doorway, hoping that they weren't waking up the neighbors again. “Uh…you have a few drinks?”
“I guess.”
That’s not an answer, asshole. “C’mon, we’ve discussed you and drinking alone.”
Matt shrugged.
That's not an answer either. “Can I come in, or what?”
Matt shrugged again, but at least he let Foggy in after that non-answer. His apartment looked the same as ever, Foggy noted, aside from a bottle of scotch and the empty glass on his coffee table. Nothing wrecked. That was a good sign. “So,” said Foggy, stalling for a few seconds to strategize. This could get tricky. If there was one thing he knew about Matt Murdock, it was that drinking exacerbated his whole emotionally stunted thing, and he only had scotch when he was feeling maudlin. It could take a lot of coaxing to get an explanation. “Did you start drinking for no reason, or did the party stop too soon?”
“I dunno.” Matt sat down on the couch. “Can’t remember.”
Like hell. But Foggy didn't call him out on it. The reason why Matt had started drinking wasn’t important. What was important was the look on his face now. Foggy sat down next to him. “You’ve got the look.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Matt said dully, not even trying to sound deadpan or innocent. He wasn't good at playing stupid when he was drunk.
“Yeah, you do. What’s going on in there?” Foggy gently tapped Matt’s forehead. “And don’t you dare say ‘nothing’, Murdock. I will pester the shit out of you until you tell me.”
For a second, he thought Matt was going to bolt or brush him off. After a few tense seconds, Matt leaned back on the sofa. “I was just…thinking about my mom.”
Weird. Matt didn’t really talk about his mom. He’d mentioned her once, back in college, when they were talking about their families. My dad died when I was ten. My mom…wasn’t around. Foggy always figured that there had been a divorce or something (wait, no, an annulment, that was what Catholics did). He hadn’t asked to find out for sure, because divorces/annulments sucked and Matt barely seemed to know her, anyway. “What about your mom?” Foggy asked. “Did she like…call, show up, something…?”
“No. I haven’t seen her since I was four.” Shit. Foggy hadn’t realized it was that bad. “I was just thinking…you know, about why she might’ve left.”
“You don’t know for sure?”
“No, Dad never said. All he told me was that things weren’t working out. But I think I..." He trailed off. Foggy thought his train of thought had been derailed, until Matt kept speaking. "Did I ever tell you about my dad? How he’d get in the ring sometimes?”
Foggy shrugged, despite knowing that Matt couldn't see it. He couldn't help the gesture. “Not really. I remember you said he lost a lot.”
“Yeah.” Matt smiled, but it faded when he started talking again. “Sometimes, when he was in the ring, he’d get hit, and he’d change. Get this look in his eyes, just…” Matt waved a hand in front of his face. “Dead, blank. Walk towards them with his hands down, like he wasn’t afraid of anything. They’d try to get away, but he’d trap them in a corner, and…” One of his hands jabbed the air in a weak punch. “Let the devil out.”
The description sent a shiver up Foggy’s spine. When he tried to picture it, Matt’s dad looked scarily like Matt. Then again, with the mask and everything… “So, your dad was a scary fighter. What does that have to do with why your mom left?” A thought occurred to him; the color drained from his face. “Matt, did he…”
“He never hurt me.” Matt answered quickly, so quickly that Foggy wondered if he’d been asked this before. “He never hurt her. Not that I remember. I don’t think he ever even yelled at her. He yelled at other people, though.” Another smile that only lasted a second, this one bitter. “He scared off one of the neighbors one time for yelling at me and some other kids. Swore up a storm. First time I heard someone say ‘fuck’. They never bothered us again.” Foggy’s shoulders slumped with relief. Okay, good, his best friend hadn’t been carrying the weight of domestic abuse all these years. The weight of something else, apparently, but not abuse. “I knew he'd never hurt me. But I saw what he was like in the ring, and sometimes it scared me. She must've seen it, too. They were together...shit, five, six years, I think. She must've seen it. Maybe it scared her more than it scared me. Maybe she really scared of him. And maybe…” It was only then that Foggy noticed Matt’s eyes were starting to look damp. "Maybe she was scared of me, too.”
Foggy took a few seconds to try and follow Matt's logic. He couldn't. There was a leap between scared of Matt's dad and scared of Matt that he couldn't explain. "Why would she be scared of you? You said you were four when she left. Who’s scared of a four-year-old?”
“She didn’t take me with her, did she?”
Foggy wanted to argue with that. He couldn’t find the words, not matter how hard he tried. The way Matt said it made things worse—quiet, resigned, like he’d thought about this before and decided, a long time ago, that it was true. Foggy wasn’t entirely sure that anything he said would convince Matt it wasn’t true. “…Matt…”
Matt pushed himself to his feet. “Can I show you something?”
“Uh…sure.”
Matt lead hi to the bathroom. It was very neat and orderly, like a lot of the spaces Matt lived in. The one out of place thing in the place was a dent in the plaster near the towel rack. Foggy had seen it before; he’d always just assumed it was damage from the previous tenants, or maybe Matt had accidentally dropped something there. Matt ran a hand over the dent. He must have touched it before; he was pretty familiar with where it was. “I did that,” he said. “There was a couple living down the street from here, and they’d fight. A lot. Things got violent, and there was nothing I could…” His hand formed into a fit and gently rested in the dent. Perfect fit. “My grandmother, my mom’s mom…she was the really religious one in the family. She used to say, ‘Be careful of those Murdock boys. They’ve got the devil in them.’ I’m…I’m a lot like my dad, Foggy. And I think she knew that, even then.”
Again, Foggy didn’t know what to say.
It was true. Matt was not always the calmest pickle in the jar. He'd always had a scary streak and an out for blood face that made even Foggy give him a wide berth. And that wasn't even touching on some of the Daredevil stories Foggy'd heard. Broken limbs were involved. One guy had ended up in a dumpster. Foggy remembered questioning if Matt had put on that mask just to hurt people. He just hadn't realized Matt asked himself the same question.
“I’m a Murdock,” Matt repeated quietly, his fist still resting in that dent. “Through and through.”
Say something. Don’t be stupid, say something. “You say that like it's a bad thing," he said carefully, resting a hand on Matt's forearm. "You said it yourself, your dad never hurt anyone outside the ring. And...well, you only go after the bad guys, right? It's not like you're running around punching everyone.” Foggy might not always agree with the Daredevil thing, but he couldn’t deny that Matt was trying to help people. Intent was always a factor. Anyway, Matt didn't need a debate on the morality of vigilantism right now. He needed reassurance. “You’re not a bad person, Matt. All that stuff about the devil in you, that’s bullshit.” Matt started shaking his head. “C’mon. How long have we known each other?”
“…a while.”
“Since college, right? I know you. And I'm not scared of you. You’re a good person.” He moved Matt’s fist out of the dent. “And neither is Karen, and your mom probably wasn't, either. You haven’t got any devil in you.” He couldn’t tell if Matt bought it. He wasn’t crying, at least. That was good. If Matt started crying, then Foggy might get started, and then they’d both be a wreck at almost midnight. “C’mon.”
They walked back to the sofa. Matt had to lean on Foggy even for that short distance, and when he sat down, he slouched as if the couch cushions were the only thing keeping him upright. “Can I ask you something?” Foggy said as he sat down next to Matt. “It’s kind of personal and maybe a bit confrontational, but…”
“Go for it.”
“How’d you stay religious? If that was what your grandma was like.” His own grandmother thinks he’s got the devil in him. Shit, I think the worst thing mine said about me was that I need to cut my hair. At least that was true, kind of. “I know a lot of people who have quit over things like that.”
Matt shrugged. “I dunno. I think it was…you know, sometimes, you hear readings about Jesus casting out demons, saving people…maybe I thought that if I was good, God would take the devil from me. And it’s comforting, in a way. I can’t really explain it. But that was a big thing when I was a kid. Wanting God to take that anger from me.”
Made sense. It was sad, sure, but it made sense. Foggy gently elbowed Matt’s ribs. “You know what I think?”
“What do you think, Foggy?”
“I think God thinks you’ve done an okay job. I mean, I’m not God, I can’t really speak for him or anything…” Foggy wasn’t even religious, to be honest. Definitely not the way Matt was. “But if I were God, I’d think you’ve…”
Matt moved over on the sofa until he was leaning against Foggy. “…I’d think you’ve done okay,” Foggy finished. “Matt?”
“You’re a good friend, Foggy.” Oh, no, Matt was definitely tearing up. They might've been heading for a cry fest. “You’re the best friend I’ve got, you know? I don’t tell you that enough.”
His hand was clutching Foggy’s forearm, and his face was buried in Foggy’s shoulder. He sounded miserable. He probably looked worse. “It’s…it’s okay, Matt.” Foggy patted Matt’s shoulder with his free hand. “I know. I know. Hey, listen, maybe you should go to bed or something…”
“Don’t go. Please?”
“Okay, I’ll stay. But you’ve gotta sleep this off, dude.”
“Okay.”
He’s not letting go of my arm any time soon, is he?
Five minutes of Matt not moving answered that one. Time to play the waiting game.
Matt started drifting off. Foggy listened to his breathing slow. Just as he was starting to wonder if it was safe to get up, Matt jolted himself back awake. “F’ggy?” he mumbled.
“Still here, Murdock.”
“Oh.” Matt lowered his head again. His grip on Foggy’s arm did, eventually, loosen, allowing Foggy to squirm free. He made sure Matt was comfortable, draped a blanket over him, even got him a glass of water, because he was a damn good friend. He started to leave the apartment, but when he took another look at Matt curled up under that blanket, he reconsidered.
Damn it, Murdock.
“I’m sleeping in your bed, Matt,” Foggy sighed as he kicked off his shoes. “The price you pay for asking me to stay.” Matt didn’t wake up to reply. Whatever. If he wanted to be pissed about it, they could argue in the morning.
Pros about crashing at Matt’s place: he had a really comfortable bed. And silk sheets to boot. Despite the flickers of light that still came in through the bedroom door from that damn billboard, Foggy was out within a few minutes.
He woke up to the sound of an alarm going off: Six-thirty. Six-thirty. Six-
“Shut uuup!” Foggy whacked at the demon machine until it was quiet. “Ugh…” When did my alarm clock start talking?
Wait. This wasn’t his apartment. He was at Matt’s, sleeping in his bed, still fully dressed. Because Matt had been drunk and sad the night before. Could be worse. Could be sleeping on the floor. Foggy crawled out of bed and stretched. I’m going to have to borrow his toothbrush, aren’t I? Gross.
Matt was starting to wake up when Foggy entered the living room. “’Morning, sunshine,” said Foggy with only a little bit of forced cheer. Please don’t start crying again. "How do you feel?"
Matt's head tilted slightly. “…you’re still here,” he said, sounding groggy and confused.
“Hey, you’re the one who wanted me to stay.” Foggy made a beeline for the kitchen. Please have food. He wasn’t sure if Matt cooked ever. Before, he’d say for sure that Matt’s diet had to be entirely composed of things that didn’t need anything more intensive than a microwave or a toaster. But now that he knew his friend had crazy weird super-senses, he wasn’t sure. Maybe Matt could use a stove. He fought crime in a devil mask. Using the stove seemed totally within the realm of possibility. “You got any coffee?”
“Uhm…” Matt sat up slowly. “Pantry on the left side of the fridge, first shelf.”
“Awesome.” Perhaps this morning wouldn’t be a total disaster. “I slept on your bed, by the way. What’s with the sheets?”
“…the sheets?”
“Yeah, you sleep on silk sheets.” Foggy clumsily measured the coffee. “You kinky bastard.”
“I don’t like how cotton sheets feel. You didn’t have to stay.”
“Of course I did.”
“Foggy, I was drunk. It didn’t mean anything.”
“You seemed pretty upset. Anyway, you would’ve stayed if I’d asked.”
“…yeah.” When Foggy glanced back over his shoulder, Matt was on his feet and halfway to the kitchen. It was scary how quiet he walked, even when he was hung over. “Still. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Foggy poured two mugs of coffee and passed one to Matt. He doubted Matt had any creamer—he drank his coffee black, the weirdo—but he checked the fridge anyway. He kept glancing at Matt as he did. It was hard for him to believe anyone would say Matt Murdock when he looked like this: sad puppy expression, dark circles under his eyes, pale in the light coming in from that giantass window. He looked like a miserable, sick kid. Not a monster.
But, then again, he was also Daredevil, previously known as the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, and by his own admission, he’d put a guy in a coma. Possibly more than one guy. He hadn’t been lying about that dent in the wall, either. And Foggy had seen Matt angry before—shouting, swearing angry, not punching angry, but still glaring so viciously from behind those sunglasses of his that the other guy’s head would’ve been blown off, if looks could kill. It could be hard to believe that they were the same person.
What the hell do I know about Matt Murdock?
Well, he knew one thing. “I still don’t think you’ve got the devil in you, for the record.” No creamer, as he suspected, but there was milk. “Also, I’m using your shower. Please tell me you have a spare toothbrush.”
No response from Matt. Foggy poured milk into his coffee, found the sugar, and added it before Matt replied: “You don’t really think that.”
“Matt, did drinking ruin your superpowers?” Matt hated it when Foggy called them that; even when he was miserably hung over, his face twisted into an annoyed grimace at the wording. “I’m not lying. Getting pissed off about shit doesn’t mean you’ve got the touch of Satan or whatever. We've all got problems. You're not that special.” Matt didn’t look like he bought it. “Look, you wanna feel my heartbeat? Will that get you out of this stupid self-loathing thing you’re doing?”
Foggy turned around to put the milk back. When he turned back to Matt, Matt had put down his mug of coffee and was holding out his hand. Oh. Oh, shit, he took that seriously. He must really be hung over. “…okay.” Foggy stepped forward carefully and moved Matt’s hand so it was resting against his chest. “There.”
“…say it again?”
It was a little weird, but Foggy rolled with it. “I don’t think you have the devil in you. You’re a good guy. You could probably stand to punch fewer people, but…”
Matt crumpled against Foggy, just enough that they were technically hugging (technically, Foggy was still holding his coffee in one hand so it was kind of a one-handed shoulder pat on his end), but not so close that he was actually using Foggy for support. “…maybe you should take the day off,” said Foggy quietly.
“Mmm-hmm.”
“I’m still using your shower.”
“I have extra toothbrushes.”
“You'd better.”
“Thank you, Foggy.”
“You’re welcome, man.” Foggy managed to get in one more shoulder pat before Matt backed away. “I’m serious. Take today off. Sleep. Listen to an audiobook. I don’t know what you do on your days off. I’ll call later.”
Good news: Matt looked less miserable. Which still left him looking pretty damn miserable, but it was better than before. Foggy would take it. “Okay.” Matt picked back up his coffee. “What are you going to tell Karen?”
“That it’s entirely your fault. What else?”
That got a laugh. Foggy would take that, too.