Chapter Text
1.
It's the last day of finals.
It's the last day of finals, 9:04 pm at the tail end of May, and already the din has escalated past irritating into oppressive.
It isn't just the noise (laughter, both low and shrieking; phone calls of every variety and the static dry crackle that comes part and parcel with them; crying, from a sadly high number of different locations). The scents of a dozen different liquors permeate the air, made worse in conjunction with smoke and sweat and food long past expiry rotting away in the fridge. It all meshes into one blanket assault against him, a barrage from all fronts slowly winning its war of attrition.
All this would be bearable under other circumstances, but Matt's post-30 hours sans sleep, on the crashing end of a caffeine dive, and lying face-down on his bed so that the only air he's successfully breathing in tastes like the cookie crumbs Foggy somehow managed to scatter on his bed from across the room. The sense of accomplishment of having finished his first year is subdued by the desire to roll away into a grave and hibernate in blissful, isolated peace for the summer. Away from the work and the noise, and all the suffering that he can hear every minute of every day, no matter where he is in the city. All that suffering he can't stop yet, not for another two years. It gnaws at Matt, like a wound that can never truly heal. A low, thrumming, background anxiety embedded in the ley lines of New York, calling to him – howling for him on the nights when the thrum stirs into something deadlier.
It helps when he can divert his focus elsewhere, so that he doesn't constantly run outside and punch everything in the face. Sometimes, the work is enough. Most days, though, he counts on something else.
And here it comes now, the light, climbing sweetness of vanilla at the entrance of the dorm, announcing the steady, slightly plodding gait into the hallway that lends a rhythm to the whistled tune (The Battle Hymn of the Republic?) that bobs up the stairwell. Everything in harmony together. It makes Matt smile involuntarily against his bedspread, which results in more stale crumbs in his mouth. Dammit Foggy.
The door to their room swings open with that tiny squeak from the bottom hinge and the click of metal shifting back into place as Foggy releases the knob. "What's cooking, good-looking?" he asks cheerfully, his backpack falling to the ground in a multilayered thump.
"My brains," Matt tries to say, but it comes out more like "mmrbrrnsss".
Foggy putters in, kicking the door shut behind him. He pauses somewhere at the side of Matt's bed, and makes a small sound of commiseration. "Yeesh, you look dead in the water. The final was that bad?"
"Noswasfligh. Mmjusstrrr," Matt responds.
"That doesn't sound like any language I know," Foggy says dubiously. "Maybe German, if we're being very loose with the definition of 'German'. And if you knew how to speak it. While high." He pads closer, and when his hands land on Matt's shoulder, Matt has a brief muscle spasm as his instincts fight to make him tense at the same time that his brain tells him to relax into the touch. It makes the already knotted lines of his back even tighter, but Foggy doesn't do anything to alleviate that. He just rolls Matt over with a gentle push, so that he's no longer inhaling all the filthy garbage particles on his bed like a faulty vacuum.
"I need a coup de grâce. There's some French for you," Matt groans as the same old argument over closet space begins two floors below for the ninth time this month and the acrid tang of all-purpose cleaner wafts in from the gap under the door.
Foggy tuts sympathetically, but Matt can hear the swish of his hair as he shakes his head no. "I'm not here to mercy kill you, Matt. I'm here to conscript you for an adventure!"
"If this is another street foods tour I'm bowing out now." Last time had been literal hell on his senses. Not even the devil would inflict that unholy amalgam of chili peppers and dairy on anyone.
"No, this is a much more pressing matter," Foggy says, but he sounds more amused than anything. Perhaps a touch guilty, from the way his vowels drag out a tad long.
Matt deigns to sit up, because as much as he'd like to sleep, he certainly isn't going to succeed in this environment right now. Might as well see what Foggy's gotten them into this time. "Did you accidentally join a secret society again?"
"Couldn't tell you even if I did. C'mon, wipe all the crumbs off your scruffy mug so we can go." The wobbly dip in Foggy's voice, betraying the start of a laugh, tells Matt that he's completely aware of where all those crumbs came from and that he feels no remorse whatsoever.
It isn't until they're walking at a sharp clip away from their dorm, weaving their way through the clumps of partiers littering the path, that Foggy finally tells Matt what they're doing.
"This morning I found in my inbox a...let's say, stern warning about returning my library books on time. I know better than to cross a librarian, so I went to collect my books, right? But, hey, turns out I left them all over the place when I was studying for finals week, so now we're gonna go gather 'em up. Fun, huh? So fun."
Foggy punches Matt's arm affectionately, and from the pressure of teeth against teeth, he must be giving Matt one of his patented winning smiles, designed to charm. It does its job for the most part, but it's got nothing on the one that appears when Foggy's deeply, genuinely happy. That unfolds in a flash, open and unrestrained, just a glimpse of true sunshine against the backdrop of darkness; Matt will never be able to see it, but he can feel the way it shapes Foggy's words, like the curve of a kiss, and he's memorized each minute motion it prompts. The gentle brush of Foggy's hair (also sunshine, so Matt's been told) against his neck when his head tilts just so, the rustle of his shirt from the smallest hitch of his shoulders, and the slight blush of increased heat in his cheeks.
Whenever they've imbibed a bit too much, and Matt manages the highest achievement of evoking that smile – on those nights when his inhibitions weaken just enough under the sway of alcohol and the thrall of Foggy's half-embrace – he wants nothing more than to feel it for himself. To map that sunshine under his fingertips as a sensory memory to keep him warm in the winter. It would only be fair, Matt thinks, since everybody else gets to revel in Foggy's light but him. But they've already had one awkward face-touching episode. He can't ask again and ruin this too.
So Matt keeps his hold safely fixed to his cane and the crook of Foggy's arm, instead of plastering his hand all over his best friend's face like a weirdo. "You've tricked me into the world's most boring scavenger hunt," he says.
"Hey, I'll take boring over creepy any day."
Matt taps his cane against the sidewalk. "I don't know, creepy would be more interesting. Considering we're on an adventure."
Foggy snorts, leading them toward another dorm. "Okay, redo. Matt, buddy," he starts, voice tipping low and guarded, laden with intrigue. "I need a little help picking up my stash of DNA samples."
Matt shudders at the implications. "Eugh. Can't you just collect evil porcelain dolls or severed hands like a normal person?"
"I take offense to that. My collection is very stringently curated. I don't just accept any random fluids- okay, never mind, I give up. This is too gross. Let's go get my perfectly clean and boring books."
Inside the dormitory, they stop at a room on the first floor. Foggy knocks, but no one answers. He tries the door; it's unlocked. From the floral scents of lingering perfume, Matt would guess it's a female student's room.
"Cover me," Foggy hisses, as he tiptoes in.
"This seems illegal," Matt notes, but he does as he's told, and tries to stand nonchalantly in the doorway. It doesn't feel natural, so he shifts to put his elbow up against the wall, resting his weight on one leg. He imagines it doesn't look much better. Luckily, most of the floor seems to be out, so there's nobody around to comment on how he's leaning against the frame like an awkward sweater model. Behind him, he hears Foggy dropping down into a crawl, fumbling around. There's the sound of bone against wood, followed by a small "ouch!". Finally, Foggy reappears with the book in his hands and hurries them away, back outside.
"One down, three to go!" Foggy declares in triumph as they continue on toward Butler Library.
"Whose room was that?"
They have almost all the same classes, yet somehow Foggy seems to know at least twice as many people. He just has a way about him. Matt's not necessarily antisocial; when people get over the blind thing, and that first hurdle of superficial attraction, it's not that hard to talk to them. And if Matt turns up the charisma by a notch to help smooth social interactions, it doesn't hurt his reputation any. But people flock to Foggy naturally. Not always immediately – "probably because I'm a smidge squishy," explains Foggy, and Matt will seriously fight any fucking idiot who wants to tell him that's a bad thing – but once they notice him, they always notice him.
Maybe not in the way Foggy wants to be noticed, as his lamentations at his lack of girlfriend will remind Matt. But people wave to Foggy on the streets, and stop to chat with him in the dining hall, and apparently have study parties with him all over campus. So lots of people like Foggy, but Matt takes a vicious satisfaction in the fact that Foggy seems to like him best.
"Oh, a friend of Marci's who we studied with on Thursday. Yulia? You might not know her; kinda mousy, bikes everywhere? I don't know how the hell the book wound up under her desk, but it's all good. Marci helped me guess where I left it behind." He starts whistling the battle hymn again.
Matt can feel his grip stiffening around his cane, glad his nails are short so that they don't dig into his palm.
Marci Stahl. Foggy likes Matt best, but Marci's climbing up in the ranks. Matt isn't sure he's happy about this.
--
After finding book #2 on the carrel of a friend of Foggy's from undergrad, and spending ten minutes scouring the coffee bar for book #3, before mysteriously discovering it in a potted plant by the library entrance, they embark out to find book #4. About five minutes into that walk, Matt notices that for some reason they're leaving campus, and another five minutes later, he realizes that they're leaving Morningside Heights altogether.
"I was mistaken," Matt says gravely. "You didn't trick me into a scavenger hunt. You have something much more nefarious up your sleeve."
Foggy laughs his helianthus laugh, brandishing his stack of books. "What, you think these are some sort of feint? You think I planted books all over Columbia to make you let your guard down before I sent you to sleep with the fishes?"
"Well, I think you're smart enough to arrange an 'accident' that the poor blind guy never saw coming. Something believable for the cops, like falling into an open manhole. That sort of thing."
"Oh wow, there's a problem I was never worried about until now. Jesus, please keep away from construction zones."
"I don't think he should. He is a carpenter, after all," Matt says.
The giggle and sneeze combination that Foggy makes is fascinating. "Holy shit, is this the kind of people we are? Making Bible jokes out of hypotheticals where you fall to your death?"
"Don't lump me together with the likes of you, Foggy. Only one of us is contemplating murder."
"You're the one who said it, buddy. I'm as innocent as they come."
But Foggy reveals no more on the subject of where they're going, so Matt surrenders to the tide. It isn't a bad night to take a walk around the city: it's the height of spring, and the stifling atmosphere of post-school jubilation has been left behind with Columbia. Tonight New York is alive with fluorescent vibrancy; every shopfront is abuzz with electricity running hot through the lights and every passerby is engaged in conversation. Despite the currents of red wine and fry oil and after-dinner mints fluctuating in and out of his airstream, Matt feels invigorated by this immersion in the coursing tempo of the city. They walk for another ten minutes before Foggy stops in front of an unfamiliar building to fish around in his pockets. Matt holds his books for him until he manages to pull out his keys, along with a hefty clump of lint that falls on Matt's shoes.
After unlocking the door, Foggy herds Matt inside, up the flight of stairs. Matt makes sure to almost trip on the second step, which rises a little high, to Foggy's cry of dismay at his own apparent thoughtlessness.
"Gaaah, sorry, sorry, give me your arm," Foggy blusters, taking his books back and reattaching himself securely to Matt's side. "Here, the stairs are a little steep, so be careful. I'll tell you when we reach the landing. We're gonna be going up three floors, okay?"
"Sure," Matt says mildly, trying to school his face so that he betrays no hint of shame. He'd told Foggy he doesn't like being treated like glass, and it's true, of course, but occasionally he has to remind himself to keep up his facade. Sometimes it feels like he veers too haphazardly between extraordinarily clumsy blind guy and suspiciously agile boxer's son. There are lots of incidents he can write off due to routine, but uncharacteristic fleetness of foot in new locations with abnormal architectural features is not easily explained away, so if it means he faceplants on the stairs, then so be it. It sure doesn't hurt that Foggy instantly teleports into Matt's arms bristled up in concern if Matt bumps into a stationary object, let alone a person. At first, Matt had thought he'd find it cloying, the constancy of Foggy's attention, but there's never any pity in his voice, just a dry annoyance at an ADA non-compliant world that doesn't rearrange itself around Matt at his convenience. Camaraderie, not charity. Now, he can't imagine a life without Foggy's running commentary and solid support.
"So, finally letting me in on the secret murder den?" Matt asks as Foggy jams his key into the knob of the first apartment on the third floor. "No need to clean it up on my account."
"Matthew, it would serve you well to learn how to trust me," Foggy sighs, jiggling the key up and down in an attempt to unstick it. Finally the door pops open. From inside comes a melodic chime, ringing through the quiet in the hallway. "They left the window open again, didn't they? You'd think they'd know better by now," he mutters, entering the room, pulling Matt in with him.
Matt's pretty sure he knows where they are, this apartment that smells like cloves and nutmeg, with a throw carpet that's ragged at the edges and a harmonic humming from the fridge and the dishwasher sweeping through to layer the space with a comforting murmur.
"Welcome to my humble abode," Foggy says, straightening out his and Matt's shoes at the doorway. "Well, my parents' abode. I just crash in the guest bedroom when I'm around. The couch is here; have a sit while I go close the window."
Matt sinks into the plush couch, a bit alarmed that it seems to be devouring him. When the window slides closed, the chimes stop, leaving the mechanical buzz as the only sound in the room. All the drowsiness he'd shaken off during the walk slinks back in as he's cocooned in the couch, one arm stuck in the space between cushions. The ambiance of Foggy's house folds around him soothingly, like a balm to his tired soul. He could fall asleep right here and now, listening to Foggy padding around in his extra-thick socks while mumbling about his parents leaving the curtains open.
"Where are your parents?" he manages to ask even as he feels his mouth going slack. This couch is pillowy bliss. Maybe the Nelsons will let him rent it out.
From a different room to the left Foggy's voice drifts back to him. "Out. It's date night, which trumps even the successful completion of their favorite son's first year of law school, apparently. They'll be sorry though when they find out they missed you."
"Aw, they're just trying to keep the romance alive," Matt says sluggishly. He's met Foggy's parents (sturdy, calloused hands; tight hugs; citrus and mint, cedar and wool) a few times now, and they always greet him with a glowing hospitality. "Did you find your book?"
"Yeah, left it on the guestroom table like I thought. Hey, you want a popsicle? I've got those fancy real fruit ones you like."
"No, thanks, I'm not awake anymore," Matt slurs. Foggy's laugh, light and floating, soars over from across the ocean to reach him on his sleep-swept shore. Matt's caught between curling back into his sandpit to rest, and setting sail across the sea to reach that sound. Thankfully, Foggy helps end his dilemma by walking back over to sit next to him. They descend further into the sofa together, and Matt's half-afraid they'll create a singularity and collapse into a black hole of pillows.
"You know, Sleeping Beauty, there's a perfectly good bed over there," Foggy teases, but Matt can hear him slowing down too, a leaden weight entering his limbs and his words.
"I like it here," he replies, giving in to one of many self-incriminating impulses and lifting his head long enough to flop onto Foggy, tucking into the warmth at the crook of his neck. "It's comfy."
"Good to hear. I'd've been ashamed to have brought you all this way to sit on a subpar couch." His words are steady, and Matt can sense the crooked smile in them, but that's not what's caught his attention. At this distance, just millimeters away from Foggy's throat, Matt can feel his pulse thundering, the blood rushing fast and sweet under that soft skin. All he would have to do is cant his head ever so slightly, and he'd be able to taste it too, that lovely syncopated cadence, just a beat and half faster than normal. Matt surprises himself with how suddenly and fiercely he wants this, even though it's easily the worst idea he's had in a long time. He's got a special knack for systematically destroying his own life, but for once the dam holds up against the flood, and he reins in his poor impulse control before he passes the point of no return.
He's not going to scare away the best friend he's ever had by emulating a sleazy leech guy with no sense of boundaries. Foggy's heartbeat might give him an encore of his favorite tune once in a blue moon, kicking into allegretto just for Matt, but he's no fool. It's not that he's mistaking what the accelerando means – it's not the skittering hop of anxiety or heightened surge of excitement. He's well aware that the uptick in heartrate is due to attraction, but attraction isn't what Matt wants from Foggy.
Attraction isn't enough.
Not when their friendship is at stake. So Matt ignores any burgeoning feelings the way one ignores a papercut or a bruised rib. He prudently cuts down each stray wish that skirts past platonic and buries them six feet under. They spell nothing but trouble, and this is the last part of Matt's life that needs any trouble.
"Thank you," he says, after a soft-edged silence, because it's safe to say, and he means it, so much more than he can convey.
Foggy's sleepy now too, which always makes conversation with him mellow. His cascade of hair skims against Matt's cheek when he wriggles even further into the cushions, and his heartbeat slows back to adagio, easy and familiar. "You won't be so grateful when you're trapped in this thing between two of my cousins during the family Christmas extravaganza," he mumbles, suppressing a yawn. "Actually, there's the Fourth of July to get through first. Forgot about that one. Hope you like zucchini, Matty."
Matt blinks stupidly into space as he digests those words, listening to Foggy tap his toes in muted thumps on the carpet. "Fourth of July?" he echoes.
"I'm sure you've heard of it."
"Yes, actually. Yaaaay America. Loud noises! Go freedom. You're celebrating here?"
"Yeah, Dad likes to try to grill on the stove, and it's always an unmitigated zucchiniful disaster. You'll be green by the time the fireworks come on. Just remember to save some space for my awesome cake."
"Are you inviting me here for your Independence Day party?" Matt asks slowly, trying to verify the facts.
"Well, yeah, dude. And Thanksgiving, and Christmas, and fricking, I dunno, National Library Worker's Day, if you want. I mean, if you've got other plans, you go on ahead and get your party on," Foggy says hastily, patting Matt's head at a strange angle, putting an audible strain on his radius. "It's not gonna hurt my feelings if you want to escape the Nelson holiday machine. I know you were busy during the beginning of winter break last year, which is why you missed Mistletoe Armageddon, but I just wanted to bring you here so you could get acclimated to the place before I inflict the whole clan of ne'er-do-wells on you. That reminds me: we should make a secret code word, so I can rescue you when they start prying too much. They can get out of hand whenever someone joins the family; a charming guy like you? They'll eat you alive."
In that whole tangle of words unintentionally designed to chip away at Matt's laboriously repaired emotional barricades, one word in particular sticks in his mind. Family.
Foggy says it so easily, like it's a given. Like Matt belongs there with his loved ones, celebrating and making happy memories. Matt doesn't understand. Is Foggy really human? Or is he some kind of friendship-bot, crafted from the purest weapons-grade kindness? That's the only reasonable cause for this inexplicable font of good luck in Matt's life.
Matt's second favorite hobby after vanquishing evil is self-sabotage, so he asks one more question. "You want me to meet your family? They won't mind?"
"Matt," Foggy says fondly, colored with a distant sadness that slips through Matt's fingers, incomprehensible. "You're my best friend. You are family."
Matt shuts down.
(When Matt was young, his dad used to worry that there weren't enough people in Matt's life. As if Matt needed anyone besides him to feel loved. There's nothing wrong with a family of two, Matt had said, and dad had grinned and chucked him under the chin, and that was that.
And then one day the world punished Jack Murdock for winning a fight that was rightfully his. Because of Matt.
So the Murdocks became a family of one. And that was that.)
Now, faced again with the imminent threat of Foggy making the same fatal mistake, Matt's at a loss for what to do. It feels like he's in limbo, thoughts spinning helplessly like tires in mud. He wants to be happy. He wants to accept Foggy's words as truth (and they are true. they are; he can hear it in every beat of Foggy's pulse), but his instincts know better than that. It's never so easy. He's itching to launch off the couch and run, down the stairs and away until he reaches the water, where he can sink to the bottom and hide in solitude. He can't hurt anyone if he's tied to the ocean floor with concrete in his lungs. He can't drag Foggy any further down with him if he cuts himself loose now.
But, the devil says from his enclave in Matt's soul, who would watch the city if you did that? Who would protect Foggy? Run if you want, but he won't be any safer for it. The city will be all the more dangerous without us here. You know what lies waiting in the shadows.
Of course he knows. Every monster and murderer, every instance of abuse and corruption; he's long been acquainted with the city's underworld. That darkness would destroy a sunbeam like Foggy. Matt will never allow that, not so long as he can still draw breath, so he will concede to the devil this once. He will stay.
And if it feels less like a compromise than it should – if he finds himself feeling more satisfaction than trepidation; if he endeavors to entwine himself so inextricably through and through the gaps in Foggy's defenses until his presence is felt as an embrace, rather than a shield, well, that will remain a secret between himself and the devil.
Mind made up, he struggles to find something to say in response before the silence grows too long, but everything feels too exposed, vulnerable. "Thank you," he chooses again, putting a few shards of his heart into his words, hoping that Foggy will pick up the pieces and keep them somewhere safe. "You're my best friend, too."
A strange thing happens then. Foggy's heartsong presents itself in a wholly novel way, just an almost-hiccup in speed that fades back down to resting rate, perfectly synchronized with the barest hitch of breath, and a progression of movement that Matt can only envision as daybreak after the solstice. It feels like a blitz of Foggy's sunshine smile, immediately softening back to a reprise of lazy mornings and rain on the windowsill, white clover under his feet, apple slices in honey. It's infinitely more radiant than the cinnamon-sweet spike of attraction.
In that moment Matt suspects, for the first time, that there yet again exists someone in this city who loves him.
"No takebacks," Foggy warns, voice a little thick with emotion. "Now that you've said it out loud, I'm holding you to it."
I've got something else you could hold, Matt almost says, but he's sure it would come across as an untimely euphemism, instead of a misguided offer to take Foggy's hand in his.
"Good," he says, sandpaper in his throat scraping against his consonants. Too sentimental. He needs to rein it in. "It's a permanent development. Best friends forever, don't you forget it."
"Seems like we should be signing some papers or shaking hands. That's important, right? You passed Contracts last semester; you should know."
"I think a fistbump will do for an oral contract." Matt raises his fist and waits only a second before Foggy meets it squarely with his own. "There. Official in the eyes of the law."
Foggy snuggles back down into the couch, hair swishing pleasantly around Matt. "Well, I think our first order of business as perma-besties should be to share those popsicles in the freezer. I have both strawberry and lime," he cajoles, and this time Matt gives in, because he's too awake, and much too aware of Foggy's presence to fall asleep on him now.
"All right, I'll take a lime. Chop chop; we don't have all night," Matt says, kicking at Foggy's legs. He tries to shape his tone into something airy and dry, to belie the swell of restlessness that's boiling in his stomach at all the possibilities he's never dared consider before. They pop in and out of existence like bubbles in the summer heat, blinking away before Matt can make the dumb mistake of letting one anchor itself in his mind. What they have has to be enough. "Perma-besties" is already more than he deserves.
But then Foggy pauses in the middle of pushing off the couch, saying with that crease of amusement in his voice, "Um, we actually kind of do. Unless you've got somewhere to be, in which case I guess for your sake I could move a little faster." Foggy stands at an excruciatingly slow pace to exasperate him, but Matt shakes his head.
I've got nowhere to be but here by your side. For as long as you'll have me – tonight, tomorrow, until the turn of the next century, until death do us part.
As soon as Matt thinks those words, one of his soap bubble daydreams alights on that part of the heart where rationality has no jurisdiction. It's not lurid or extravagant. Just laughably unrealistic.
'If you like legally binding contracts, then have I got a deal for you,' Matt would say, and Foggy would ask what it entails. 'It's not much different from the one we just made,' Matt would assure him. 'Almost exactly the same, actually, with just a few more fringe benefits. Hospital visitation rights, joint tax filing, spousal privilege; you know, the usual. Useful, right? You'd just have to sign your name on the line here.' And Foggy would agree amicably, and they'd zip on down to the courthouse to have it all sorted out. It would only be practical, to open up these other avenues from which Matt could look after Foggy.
The cool touch on his forehead of paper around ice wakes him from his preposterous fantasy. He takes the popsicle that Foggy offers him and sticks it in his mouth before anything he was just thinking about can escape into the open. In fact, he mentally drives a pin through his dream bubble to dispel it from his mind completely.
Foggy hums happily around his strawberry pop, unaware of the foolishly high levels of inner turmoil that Matt's suffering through. "See, delicious. All legal procedure should be ratified with a side of dessert. People would be so much happier."
"Can't argue with that," Matt agrees through his bite of frozen limeade.
Foggy begins speculating which desserts best match which type of law, and Matt sinks into the lull of his voice, laughing whenever he makes a particularly apt match. Matt could live like this forever, in the comfort of Foggy's stratosphere. He might never be able to stop himself from wanting more, but here, in everlasting orbit, he can subsist.
This is enough, he reminds himself, but as he's thinking it, he hears that impossibly beautiful sound again. That perfect orchestration of heart and breath and smile. It ebbs back into the regular, reassuring pace that Matt keeps as a reference point, but before it disappears, he catalogs each component part so that he can recognize it when it next reappears. He has a suspicion - a terrible, burning hope - that he knows what it might mean, but right now, there's insufficient evidence. He will have to investigate further.
When Foggy starts extolling the virtues of Grand Marnier buttercream, Matt's traitorous brain flashes thoughts of wedding cake at him, which results in that same silly daydream bubble returning to haunt him. This time, though, he leaves it to nest where it will. He knows better than to entertain pointless delusions, but now he has a hunch that maybe it isn't so pointless or such a delusion after all.
He just has to prove it.
Chapter 2
Notes:
This one takes place shortly before chapter one of never could lie, which happens some nebulously appropriate time after Season 1. Incidentally, since it probably won't be directly mentioned, Karen's let in on the secret at some point between this chapter and the beginning of never could lie, if you were wondering!
Chapter Text
2.
Matt should have called ahead. For a multitude of reasons, not least of all because it's the nice, polite thing to do – and Matt may not always be nice, but he does know how to act polite. And because it's Claire, who deserves to have her personal space and privacy respected, and also a sizable raise and some peace and quiet.
The problem is– well, one of the problems is that Matt isn't particularly good at peace when he's in the suit, nor is he good at popping his dislocated shoulder back into place when he's got a sprained finger or two on the other hand. He could fix it on his own, probably, but he's currently in the middle of a mope fest, and would really like some attention. Claire might chastise him, but she won't turn him away, unlike certain law partner shaped somebodies.
Matt grits his teeth and knocks on Claire's door with his forehead, because using either of his hands right now isn't such a smart plan. He rests there against the wall, trying to stop being a bitter, spiteful asshole, but it's not a very successful venture. The pain in his shoulder is a deeply present reminder of why he needs to self-reflect and get the hell over his jealousy, or man up and do something about his unraveling personal life, because if he continues to stew in this embarrassing miasma of loathing, he'll probably get stabbed, and then Claire will really be unhappy with him. Also, he'd hate to prove Stick right about anything else, ever.
But even disregarding the injuries, the whole situation's left him more distracted that it really should, because at this point in their friendship, he shouldn't be surprised that Foggy might want to date people. People that Matt doesn't know, and can't put through a vigorous background check without severely violating the trust he's started to gain back from his best friend. Marci would be tolerable; Karen, even better. At least Karen and Marci are known factors, people who Matt can entrust Foggy's heart to. But noooo, Franklin Nelson has to be difficult and evasive and deftly avoid Matt's probing questions, and yes, Matt knows what a hypocritical jerk he's being, but he can't quite manage to stop.
So Foggy keeps spending his evenings with his mysterious new sweetheart, and Matt keeps letting Karen tsk at him as she watches him waste the night away thinking about his bad timing. If only he'd taken the chance while they were at Columbia. If only he'd said it that night at Josie's. If only there'd been a way to confess now without shattering their tenuous reconciliation.
If there were, and if he could, and the moment were just right, then he thinks Foggy would say yes. That heartbeat that he's spent years learning inside and out would never lead him astray; he's almost positive that Foggy returns his feelings.
But just because Foggy may have loved Matt, doesn't mean that he'll never feel that way about someone else, and now Matt's fucked up, and Foggy's going to run off and elope with some random stranger while Matt's stuck in this hallway with his arm hanging out its socket and the sad illusion of his beloved's heartbeat ringing in his ears for no apparent reason other than to drive Matt bonkers.
As he lifts his head to smack his forehead against Claire's door one more time, wondering what could be holding her up (she must be home, he can hear the news blaring from the television, as well as smell the heated wave of cinnamon threaded through his favorite vanilla sugar seeping out through the wall) when he finally receives an answer. It's a testament to how completely zoned out he is that he's surprised by what happens next.
"Holy shit, Mat-...mattresses are on sale down at the Sofa Czar's, can you believe it, Claire? Up to 60% off!" Foggy blurts in what has to be one of the worst saves Matt's ever heard in his life.
Of course, Matt's too busy asking his own dumb questions to mock him. "You're real? And baking snickerdoodles?"
Claire, however, is competent enough to compensate for the both of them, so she drags Matt in by the collar and locks the door shut behind them. "You," she says to Foggy, pushing him off in the direction of her kitchen, "should not be allowed to buy furniture without supervision. Finish up with your cookies and then come back over here. I want you to see this."
"And you," she barks sternly at Matt, directing him into her sofa. "You need to remove this ridiculous outfit so I can get a look at that shoulder."
Matt frowns, because his outfit isn't ridiculous. It's sturdy and lightweight and visually significant, as far as Matt can tell. "You're the one who told me to start wearing body armor," he says, only a little sulky, but he starts disrobing.
"I don't think she meant the kind that makes you look like you work at a medieval roleplay bondage dungeon," Foggy calls over.
"It's not that bad! And it suits me," Matt says, letting Claire help him gingerly remove his right arm from the sleeve. "I don't know how you've failed to notice, but I do have a certain theme going on."
Claire laughs as she has him lie down flat on the floor, gently holding his arm in her cool hands. "Yeah, we've been wondering how much you've got your heart set on all that. It's not too late for an image change."
"I'd start with the name," Foggy says. Matt can feel his approach through the floorboards, the consistent thump thump thump of his footsteps drumming against Matt's back. "Daredevil's alright, but we don't think it's a perfect fit."
"I think Bad Decisions Man is more apt," Claire offers, gradually starting to rotate Matt's arm. She turns to direct her instructions to Foggy, who's sat down beside her. "See how I'm holding his arm? If it happens again, you should really bring him to me: doing it wrong could cause more damage. But I want you to know this, just in case."
"Understood. Don't try to put Bad Decisions Man's limbs back into place unless we're really desperate," Foggy recites back. The newly renamed vigilante in question wants to protest, but Claire's pushing suddenly relocates his shoulder with a quiet pop, and they all sit back in relief.
"Daredevil would like to thank his friends for their help, but rejects their suggestions for a new name." Matt rises with Claire's hand at his back.
"We'll convince you someday. Stay here; I'll get you some ice for those fingers." Claire steps away, drawing her presence with her. It's sharp and safe all at once: bitter coffee and good cotton, a freshwater coolness interwoven with a hint of antiseptic tang. It's clearly Claire, now that Matt has had a chance to soak it in again, but he hadn't been able to single it out from its fading traces on Foggy's skin at work the mornings after. Too slight to be truly intimate, which should be enough to bring Matt some measure of relief, except Foggy had proceeded to turn down his and Karen's invitations four nights in a row, and that's never a good sign, no matter how chaste the relationship may be.
And now that he's finally found out his rival's identity, Matt feels lighter. His brain is less hazy, at least. Claire is...well, there's nothing wrong with Claire whatsoever. Claire is superb; Matt would have dated her himself if they hadn't mutually agreed it would probably muck up her life and he weren't still in love with somebody else. So it's fine if Foggy's dating her. Fantastic, actually. They'll take care of each other in a way that Matt can't do for either of them. Their relationship will be phenomenal, he can already tell. So wonderful.
"Matt, take it easy on your hands, man. She's coming back with the ice, so stop clenching, jeez." Foggy's hand lands lightly on his fist, trying to coax his fingers back apart with small stroking motions, careful not to touch the swollen joints. "I have some bad news for you. Punching your own injuries doesn't actually make them go away."
"Are you sure?" Matt asks, relaxing his grip into the soft, placating touch of Foggy's hand. "Because I have it on good authority that if you-"
"Yes, I'm positive. Please do not believe whatever stupid bullshit your senile knockoff kung-fu master taught you. You cannot actually beat pain into submission," Foggy snips back, but there's no heat behind his words. It's almost teasing, and it does wonders to make Matt feel better. They still aren't quite at a place where Matt can be certain Foggy can still joke with him.
"Then I'll use my words. I've been known to be quite persuasive when I want to be."
Matt can tell Foggy's smiling when he replies. "Not even your impressive vocabulary and commanding courtroom demeanor's gonna win you this one. Bullet wounds make for a tough jury."
Claire returns in a cloud of snickerdoodle sweetness, ice cubes crinkling in the bag she's holding. "Hold this while I go get my athletic tape." The bag of ice is wrapped in a towel; Matt reluctantly removes his hand from Foggy's grasp to rest it on the sofa on the ice pack.
"Your mouth is saying 'athletic tape' but your eyes are saying 'delicious cookies'," Foggy comments knowingly, and Claire cackles as she walks past, slapping him on the knee. Matt tries not to pout at the casual way they're already palling around with each other.
"Still not sold on the idea of you two as lawyers, but if you ever decide to open up a bakery, I'm there. Now let me enjoy another cookie before they get cold." Matt can hear her walking away from the kitchen, deeper into her apartment, contrary to her words. He takes this opportunity to confront Foggy alone; it feels easier than battling on two different fronts at once.
"Why didn't you just tell me you were dating Claire? It's not weird, if that's what you're worried about. I- I'm happy for you two." Matt keeps his face still and impartial, trying to inject some degree of friendly support into his cheek muscles but he doesn't feel like it's working. His relocated shoulder feels stiff as he braces himself for whatever defense Foggy's prepared.
Foggy blows out a huff, like he wants to laugh and sigh at the same time, and settled for neither. "Matt, I didn't tell you that because we're not dating."
He's not lying. His pulse is bedrock steady, but Matt's left even more confused than before.
"Claire's been teaching me some first aid basics," Foggy continues, fiddling with his tie in what Matt imagines is a sheepish gesture. "Sorry for all the secrecy. I didn't want to tell you with Karen around, since, well, we're still keeping her in the dark."
Matt makes a foolish fish out of water face as his lips move up and down but no sound emerges for several seconds. "Why suddenly? I hope you're not planning on needing to use these newfound skills on yourself any time soon."
"Matt, c'mon, you know what this is about. Claire's schedule isn't always going to be conveniently free whenever you decide to kickflip off a water tower or barrel roll through a field of glass shards – which, by the way, for the sake of both our continued sanity and well-being, I urge you not to do – and someone's gotta be around to help patch you up. I figured, hey, no better candidate than me, right?"
Claire returns before Matt can respond, which is for the best, as he needs some time to gather his thoughts. His instinct is to refuse Foggy's help, because it would be so easy for him to get hurt the way Claire had. Matt could never recover from that. But logic tells him it's already too late. Foggy's tenacious, and now that he's got his mind set on helping Matt, there's no deterring him.
Matt sits in silence as Claire explains to Foggy how to tape his sprained fingers into position, trying to come to terms with what it is he wants. Those things are, rather broadly and in no particular order:
- to protect Hell's Kitchen
- to marry Foggy
- to keep his friends safe
- justice
- to win some court cases once in a while
- a snickerdoodle
In the most optimistic of circumstances, Foggy would be living with him in wedded bliss, and there really would be no way of convincing him not to aid Matt. And the fact is, even if the two of them never live together again, Foggy is present in almost every aspect of Matt's life, so for Matt to both evade his care and prevent him from finding out that he'd deliberately avoided him would require jumping through an astonishing number of hoops. Matt's pulled off more literally acrobatic feats in more distressing circumstances, but he shouldn't have to for a matter like this. So it's decided.
"When you're done glaring at the ceiling you can feel free to put your shirt back on. I'm going to get you a new icepack," Claire says warmly, lowering Matt's hand back to his lap. He can feel the tension of the athletic tape holding his knuckles in place.
"Oh! Thank you. You did a great job," Matt replies. He stands and begins putting on the upper part of the suit with Foggy's assistance.
"Wanna tell us what's got you trying to melt Claire's light fixtures with your optical death lasers?" As he's easing Matt's arm back into the sleeve, Foggy's heartrate ticks up a beat, into the tempo of attraction, and Matt tries his best not to smirk in triumph. Foggy's still single and Matt's not out of the running yet. Good.
"Nothing. I'm just impressed by how much you're willing to learn. Makes me question my work ethic."
Foggy zips Matt in with one vigorous motion. "I mean, there's a lot I can't do, but it has to be better than no treatment at all. Don't tell me you don't trust me to help," he says, a tinge of worry in his voice.
"No, it's not that at all. I'm actually really touched that you and Claire are doing all this for me. Thank you," Matt says, putting as much affection into his charm offensive as possible. He wants to feel that pulse swoop up and plateau out; it's been too long since he's heard it last.
Foggy's heart doesn't disappoint, even if Matt can somehow sense its owner rolling his eyes. "Don't let your ego get too inflated, Murdock. We do talk about stuff other than you," Foggy clucks, leading Matt into Claire's kitchen. "Like our shared hobbies."
"We're both good at softball and bad at watercolors," Claire chimes in, smacking her bag of ice against the counter top in a piercing crack in order to break down the cubes. "And we hate Cool Whip."
"Not that I disagree, but that's a strangely specific example," Matt says. He takes a cookie from the pile on the cooling rack and takes a bite. It's exactly what he expected, perfect but for Foggy's tendency to go heavy on the vanilla extract.
"We had an...'experience' at dinner yesterday." Claire shudders a bit as she trades out Matt's old icepack with his new one.
Foggy mirrors her. Matt can imagine the way his skin must be pricking up as the chill runs along his spine. "I'll tell you about it tomorrow. We should probably be getting out of Claire's way. Let her catch some Z's before fighting the good fight again."
"I don't think it'd be a good idea for you to leave at the same time," Claire says in between mouthfuls of her cookie. "Why don't you go first; I'll keep Matt here to help me clean up."
"Are you sure? He looks kinda beat; I could stay," Foggy offers, but Matt can tell Claire's shaking her head no from the swish of her hair.
"No, you already did all the dishes. We just need to pack this all up, and I should check Matt's shoulder one more time anyway."
Claire's projecting a pretty clear signal that she wants to talk, so Matt throws in his agreement. "Yeah, go on ahead, Foggy. Get home safe, and I'll meet you at the office tomorrow."
"You just want to rekindle the romance now that you know I'm not in the picture," Foggy accuses, but he accepts a bag of cookies and athletic tape, and bids the two of them farewell. Matt can hear him humming The Four Tops as he leaves the building and finds it strangely fitting.
"So, you're okay with me dating Foggy, huh?" Claire teases, bumping Matt with her elbow as she boxes up the cookies and he wipes down the counter slowly. She had checked his shoulder again and decided it should be alright if he did this chore carefully.
Matt grimaces, scrubbing at a tacky spot. "I guess you heard that. Not my finest moment of deductive reasoning."
"I'm just glad I didn't have to fight you over his honor. I don't think I could win against the laser eyes." She sounds amused, but there's a question there, one that Matt isn't prepared to answer. He flashes her a vague smile and focuses on his work instead.
"You might; I'm pretty certain I wouldn't be able to aim very well." The sticky vestiges of sugar won't be removed no matter how much he rubs. He shouldn't go until the whole counter is clean. He just has to scrape harder. But Claire pries the dirty towel away from him before he throws out his shoulder again and tosses it neatly into the trash. Then she shoos him to the door.
"Thanks for the help. I know you want to make sure he got home safe, so I'm kicking you out now. Go get your guy." She rubs his unharmed shoulder in a brisk, supportive way. Even without Matt admitting to anything, Claire's found her way to her answer anyway.
"It's not like that." Not yet, Matt doesn't dare say aloud.
"But it could be," Claire counters. "If you asked, I think odds are he'll say yes." She makes it sound matter-of-fact, like probability is just objectively on Matt's side.
For a second, he almost agrees. He lingers with his hand on the doorknob, at the edge of the precipice. All he has to do is take one step forward. All he has to do is ask.
But it feels too careless. Too soon.
Matt shakes his head. "The timing isn't right. I have to gain back his trust first. I have to prove that I'm worthy, and I have to wait until he's ready, and we're just not there yet. And I don't know if we'll ever be." It hurts to admit, but it's true. He and Foggy need to find equilibrium again as friends and partners, before Matt can even think about anything else. He can't rush the process, even if it means Foggy might meet someone else. There are still transgressions to be healed.
"Alright. You take your time. But don't scare yourself into backing out of it. Don't punish yourself for a crime you never committed. It's okay for you to be happy," she says softly, placing her fingers over his and turning the handle.
Her pulse doesn't fluctuate even a quarter of a beat. Truth. It's okay for Matt to be happy.
He nods, and she releases his hand. As he pushes the door open, she leans up and brushes a kiss goodbye against his cheek.
"Good luck, Daredevil."
"Goodnight, Claire."
--
By the time Matt's outside Foggy's apartment, he can hear the sound of splashing water and smell the biting mint of toothpaste in the air. Foggy's preparing to sleep, and Matt knows he's made it home safely, but he can't help but want one last confirmation. Luckily, Foggy's windows face into the alleyway, so Matt winds his way up the fire escape and tosses a small pebble at the bedroom window. He doesn't get a response right away, so he tosses one more, until he can hear Foggy muttering, "Dammit, Matt, learn to use a door!"
But the window slides open nonetheless, and Foggy pokes his head out, letting the wind rustle through his hair in a familiar motion. "Get in here before someone realizes you're not just an abnormally large tomcat," Foggy whispers, and Matt leaps over onto the sill and slips into his room.
"Just wanted to make sure you made it home safely," Matt says quietly, following Foggy to the bathroom, waiting in the doorway as Foggy finishes washing his face.
"Don't worry, I'm still in one piece," Foggy assures him, patting his face dry with a washcloth. "But you can't have followed me all the way here just for that. Something on your mind?"
Is there? Matt pauses, unsure himself as to why he's here. To ensure that Foggy's safe and well, but he is, so Matt can leave. He should go and let Foggy be.
Foggy notices the lapse in conversation, and tilts his head questioningly. "What is it? Did you come to confess that you've finally accepted Bad Decisions Man as your true self?" He taps Matt's chest lightly with the back of his hand, that dry lilt of sarcasm in his tone, and suddenly, things between them feel easy again, like they used to. Matt finds himself entranced. He should leave, but how could he possibly go now?
So he laughs instead, telling Foggy, "No, definitely not that. I wanted to ask you something." He'll think of a question. About sports, perhaps. Something simple. Comfortable. Anything that will keep them here, in this snowglobe dream version of reality.
Foggy drapes his washcloth back on its hook and turns off the bathroom light, before taking Matt's arm gently in his and leading them out to the living room to sit. "Sure thing. But if it's about Claire, I can tell you now, there's nothing going on between us, so if you were thinking of getting back together, you won't hear any objections from me."
It's the lightness in Foggy's voice that gives Matt pause. It sounds almost right, except there's the slightest hollowness underneath that makes it ring false. And if that weren't enough, the two-step flip-flop of a lying heart gives it away every time. This is no exception. Any thoughts of frivolous sports questions fly out the window. He needs to make sure Foggy understands.
"No, it's not about Claire." Matt says it firmly, to make it very clear. "I wanted to know if..."
If we'll ever be the way we were before; if we could ever be more. If you and I could be 'us' again.
Matt wants to know if it's true, what Foggy's heart professes to him every day, even on the bad days. He wants to call a preliminary hearing, to see if the evidence he's been building all this time falls in his favor. He has almost too many questions to ask, even though they're all variations of the same tune.
What does it mean when Matt makes Foggy laugh, and his heart skips a beat afterwards? Is it for the same reason that Foggy's skin becomes a degree warmer when Matt steps in an inch too close? Does Foggy's chest ache whenever Matt dates someone, in the same way it gets harder for Matt to breathe when he thinks of Foggy with somebody else?
All those years ago, when Matt accidentally fell for a boy with constellations in his voice and summer in his touch, was there any chance that boy might have fallen for him in return?
Matt's on the precipice again, about to step over the edge when he comes to his senses, a moment before plummeting into the void. He can't ask yet. Not when there's still the lightyears of distance between them, measured out in the infinite seconds that Matt spends in penitent silence, hoping that with each passing day, that expanse of space might shrink, even if only by an inch. One day, he'll say it all, and more, but not tonight.
The actual question that he asks is this: "If you did start dating someone, you would tell me, wouldn't you?" It comes out sounding more gloomy than he intended.
Foggy doesn't hesitate. "Of course I would. It's- look, I know things aren't really the same between us, but you're still my best friend, Matt. I'm not even mad at you anymore. I just worry, okay? About you, and Karen and Claire and Brett, but I'm working on it. Just because sometimes I get pissed at you for making historically bad gambles with your own life, doesn't mean I want to lose you. I promise I'll never leave you behind."
He's still linked to Matt by the arm, so Matt squeezes at the crook of his elbow as he swallows down all his hysterical gratitude. "I promise to believe you," he swears, and he thinks that Foggy gives him a half-smile in return.
"That's what I wanted to hear. Now, you've asked your question, so it's bedtime for Foggy. You should stay over; it's kind of late for you to go all the way back to yours. You can even have the bed if you promise not to get dirt everywhere," Foggy says, standing them up. He yawns deeply, leaning into Matt, who has to strengthen his resolve.
"Thanks, but not tonight." He's still too close to the brink. If he stays tonight, he'll stay forever. He'll ask every question he's trapped away, and there'll be no stopping him, not even when he spills out the most important one of all - the one you only get one chance to ask. This time, he really must go.
"You sure?" The words melt out of Foggy like molasses, and Matt smiles at him as he pulls away, toward the window.
"Certain. Sleeping in crushed doritoes can't be good for my shoulder," he replies, hovering at the windowsill.
"That was only once, and you know it," Foggy says, but he waves Matt off without further protest. "Goodnight, Matty. Try not to slip on a banana peel on your way home."
"I would never. Goodnight, Foggy."
Matt waits until Foggy closes the window to leave, but even then, he lingers on the rooftop, listening for the telltale sound of Foggy's breathing to even out, and his heart rate to slow. Finally, with that rhythm in his head, he takes his leave, thinking about all those questions he'll have time to ask someday.
Someday.
Chapter 3
Notes:
Suddenly, an epistolary chapter! There are some images embedded in this chapter; please let me know if you can't see them! I can add a note at the end to tell you what they say.
This occurs (for the most part) between chapters 3 and 4 of never could lie! I hope you enjoy, and thank you so much to everyone who's been reading!!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
3.
Foggy Nelson, Recorded Text, 6:42 a.m.:
"Gooooood morning! Time to wake up, champ! It's a beautiful day here in sunny California-
- don't lie, daybreak isn't for another four hours-
-fine, Brett, it's a beautiful day here in pitch-black California, and you, my huckleberry friend (for the record, that's 'you' meaning Matt Murdock, and not 'you' meaning the resolutely ungrateful Brett Mahoney) have an exciting day at court! So go put on your grownup pants and get it done, okay? I'm counting on you! You're the sole face of the firm until Monday, so try not to flirt with the judge or fight the bailiff. Souvenirs are only for good kids who don't get held in contempt of court!
Seriously though, you're going to crush it. Tell Karen she did a great job following up on the Turner files. I'll see you guys soon! Try not to miss me too much. Anything to add, Brett?
- stop yelling into your damn phone, and get in the taxi! Decent people are trying to sleep right now-
- alright, hold your horses, lemme just send this to Matt-"
Matt almost falls off the bed in his scramble to pick up his phone when the text tone chimes. He lies there, arm dangling off the mattress, waiting impatiently for the message to play. Foggy's voice is tinny when translated through the recording, but it's better than nothing. Matt plays it a second time, to hear the rise and fall in Foggy's intonation when his voice goes soft in the center, sweetly genuine when he stops ribbing Matt. Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes with one hand, he begins dictating a text back.
(6:46) what if I fight the judge and flirt with the bailiff
(6:46) is that allowed
(6:47) do you honestly think I would encourage that kind of behavior from you
(6:48) in the right circumstances, yes
(6:49) let's set an expectation that neither is ever appropriate while court is in session
(6:49) pants: on
(6:49) hands: off
(6:51) attend court naked and touch everybody. understood.
(6:52) your threat would be a lot more credible if I didn't know you would literally break out into hives if you did that
(6:53) :-(
(6:55) yeah sadface right back at you buddy
(6:55) call you later, I gotta help brett make sure we have the right hotel
(6:56) good luck!
(6:58) I don't think we'll need it
(6:58) sleep well, Foggy
--
Forty minutes later, when Matt's on his way to the office, umbrella in one hand and cane in the other, another text comes through. He stops under the canopy of a real estate agency to listen to the message, even though he's only two minutes away from his destination.
"Matt! You wouldn't believe- okay, you know all those times I gave you shit for your handwoven artisan silk sheets? I take it back. All of it. I don't know what anything on this bed is made of, but ohhhh my god this is like the third greatest experience of my life. I look like a flipped turtle doing snow angels right now, but Brett doesn't even looked pissed- oh, he's already asleep. He's hugging four different pillows; it's adorable.
Anyway, just wanted to apologize and beg forgiveness for my past ignorance. I've seen the errors of my ways. No more 100 thread count sheets for me. Only the good stuff from now on."
Foggy hisses the first part of the message in a very weak attempt to keep quiet, then wholeheartedly gives up and begins moaning about how great the hotel bed is. There's a persistent muffled rocking noise in the background, which Matt suspects is the sound of him rolling up and down the mattress. It's a terrible thing to be stuck thinking about Foggy on a soft bed when they're two thousand miles apart and the distance is still the least of all the obstacles in Matt's path. It's agonizingly distracting, which is why Matt proceeds to waste the next five minutes looking up silk sheets for sale on the internet. He finally finds a good set and forwards the link to Foggy's email.
from: [email protected]
to: [email protected]
subject: How about these?
www.amazon.com/bedding-paradise-silk-premier-collection/dp/B00HN1Y90
Mulberry silk is the best there is.
-
He receives Foggy's response as he's letting himself into the office.
(7:49) ah yes burgundy sheets
(7:49) perfect for all those times I'm lying in bed while trying to drink merlot
(7:50) it's a nice color
(7:51) I assume
(7:51) not against my pasty complexion
(7:52) we can't all be byronically handsome and look good in firetruck red
(7:52) when have I ever worn anything that could be described by an emergency vehicle
(7:53) uh who says I was talking about you???
(7:53) karen can rock the whole mysterious broody thing and has been known on occasion to dress in warm colors
(7:53) also. there MAY be some items in your closet that could be called
(7:54) unexpected?
Matt finally makes it through their door as Foggy's last text plays, and stops at Karen's desk where she's scribbling something down and trying to chug her coffee simultaneously.
"This one's for you," she says, putting her cup down and picking up his.
"Thank you," he says, accepting his daily mug of caffeinated slime. He pauses for a second, contemplating his cell, before asking, "Have you ever seen me wearing anything bright red?"
"Um, not on a regular basis," Karen replies. "About as often as you wear that tie with the Mystery Gang on it?"
"What tie?"
Karen coughs. "Ah. I always kinda wondered if you knew about it. You've never worn it to court, if that helps."
Matt skims through his memory, trying to locate the last time he and Foggy had gone shopping together. Over half a year ago. He's been unknowingly wearing a cartoon tie for six months.
"You wouldn't be available this weekend to help me purge my closet, would you?" Matt asks Karen after downing half his cup of scalding coffee.
"I am, but I'm also a fan of the tie, so you might want to find someone else," Karen laughs, patting him on the arm as she passes on her way to Foggy's office. Matt hovers by her desk as he calls Foggy out on his deception.
(7:59) "mostly gray with a distinctive pattern"
(7:59) is what I recall being told
(8:00) the faces of a cartoon dog and his crime fighting friends do not count as a pattern
(8:00) matt I would love to discuss this right now really I would
(8:01) but it's 5am and I need to get some shuteye before the rehearsal dinner later
(8:01) so goodnight xoxo don't throw out the tie
--
As Foggy predicts, they crush it at court. After bidding their client goodbye, Matt and Karen sit down at a little Vietnamese place near the courthouse for dinner. Matt can tell from the way Karen's wriggling in her chair that she keeps sneaking glances at him, but she waits until most of the way through her pho to finally spring her trap.
"So, what's up with you? Everything all good?" she asks.
"I'm okay? I feel fine," he starts, then wonders if maybe this isn't the talk he thought it would be. "Wait. Is there something I should know about?" He leans in, trying to sense if beneath the aroma of broth and basil there's any trace of blood. "Are you okay?"
Karen snaps her chopsticks at him to ward him off. "No, it's nothing like that, I promise. Just wanted to know how you were holding up with Foggy gone. Only two more days! Be strong, Matt." She rests her free hand heavily on his wrist, undoubtedly batting her huge doe eyes at him in half-affected concern. He can feel the disturbance in the Force every time her eyelashes move.
"We've survived being apart before, Karen. I think we can manage it again." This is what he says, but truth be told, he doesn't much like that he can't sense any part of Foggy's presence at all. Yesterday he'd listened to Foggy's pulse fading into the distance until it was too far away to reach, and its absence has left him unbalanced ever since.
"Sure you won't pine to death first?"
"I don't- It's. Don't call it pining. That makes me sound hopeless. I'm working on it," Matt insists, but Karen snorts, turning away to jab at her noodles.
"Not very proactively. Here you are, at a hole in the wall with your secretary-"
"And I've never been happier-"
"Stuff it, counselor," Karen pokes him once, hard, in the side. "Here you are, sitting with me and eating vermicelli, while the love of your life is across the country, sharing a hotel room, with another man-"
"Sergeant Mahoney? I don't really think anything's going to-"
"-a good-looking, competent guy, who happens to be his childhood friend-"
"Enemy, actually. I don't think either of them would ever admit to being fr-"
"-to attend a wedding together. A wedding, Matthew!" Karen bellows, rattling the ice in her glass of water as she slams it down. "Do you know what happens at weddings, Matt?!"
"Generally, two people being bonded together in holy matrimony-"
"Single. People. Hook. Up. It's the atmosphere, you know, all the romance, and the free alcohol-" Karen's worked herself into a frenzy, turning her voice low and dark, hands starting some sort of complicated interpretive incantation to curse Brett from afar.
Matt catches her flapping arms before she takes the both of them down with her flailing. "I appreciate the concern, really. I do. But it's a work in progress, I swear." He waits until he can feel her long hair tickling his hand as her head bobs up and down in a nod. "And you'd better never let either of them know what you were just thinking. I don't know which of them would be more offended."
"Matt..." she sighs, still bobbing sadly like a deflating balloon. She loops their arms together, anchoring him down. "After all this time, you have to know, don't you? That he'll wait forever for you?"
With one finger, Matt draws a line through the puddle of spilled ice water on the table, leaving droplets to pearl up along the path. He thinks about the way Foggy's hand fits against his when they dance, even if they might be doing all the wrong moves. About the stale bagels they ate for two weeks after L&Z, and the sound of pure happiness Foggy made the first morning Matt presented him with a muffin instead. Foggy, who used to proofread Matt's papers in neon gel pen before reading his edits out loud; who somehow cheats at bingo and crushes Oreos into his milk to make travesty pudding; who texts Matt excruciating bird puns and science factoids he learns on the Discovery Channel and Marshall quotations before he goes to sleep, so that Matt has some human contact to come home to.
Everyone leaves Matt eventually. It's a fact of life. But just as surely, Matt believes that if he asked very nicely, Foggy would do his damned best to stick around. And in return...
Foggy had called Matt his last dance. Matt intends to live up to the title.
"I know. But it won't have to be forever."
--
He finds the first post-it on his fridge when he puts his leftovers away. He feels out each letter carefully, relearning the crimps and the curves of Foggy's letters. When Foggy had realized Matt could read handwriting with his hands, they'd had a field day, trading notes throughout the office all day like highschoolers. Matt still has in his desk drawer a paper fortune teller decorated with Foggy's neat block numbers and Karen's off-color, ominous predictions full of minor misfortunes.
Matt peels it off the refrigerator door and sticks it onto the handle of his water pitcher to remind himself to change it at a later date.
The second note appears on the bathroom door, an inch below the doorknob. The third is directly to its right.
Foggy must have left them yesterday when he had come over to borrow a nicer pair of cuff links for the wedding. Matt had left him alone in the living room to go pick up his mail downstairs, unaware that sounds of pen on paper above were not from Foggy scribbling notes onto his packing list.
These two notes, he leaves where they are. After checking the time, he decides to text Foggy; the rehearsal dinner hasn't started yet.
(21:03) I'd be able to hear you thinking about it before you even arrive at the store
(21:04) your brain is noisy
(21:05) lies! my brain is a sleek well-oiled machine
(21:05) quiet and efficient
(21:06) like a roomba
(21:08) quiet? a roomba sings each time it accomplishes a task
(21:09) which I guess makes it an accurate simile
(21:10) not gonna deny it
(21:10) I know what I'm about
(21:11) and what I'm about is showtunes
(21:11) your caterwauling does bring some vitality to the office
(21:13) awww now if that ain't the sweetest thing anyone's said to me all day
(21:14) I'd serenade you now but bess is calling for me
(21:16) send her my thanks
(21:16) she's done the city a great service
(21:17) my balance would be shot if I had to listen to your rendition of one day more through a phone recording
(21:18) fucking rude, matthew
(21:19) you and I are gonna have to settle this in the karaoke booth buster
(21:19) bring it, Franklin
(21:20) but later. bring it later. right now you should go see Bess
(21:21) ha yeah she looks like she might cuff me if I walk any slower
(21:21) stay safe matt
(21:21) I'll talk to you tomorrow
(21:23) will do, Foggy
(21:23) have fun
It's too early in the night to go out yet, so Matt doesn't suit up until after he's finished cleaning the bathroom and taking out the trash. That's when he finds the final note, stuck to the inside of his closet, slightly crumpled. He waits until he's dressed to remove the post-it from the wall. The indentations are more pronounced on this one, the ink running deep and the lines more deliberate than the others.
Okay. Smart, careful, no debilitating injuries. He can do that. If he tries.
He takes the post-it and adheres it to the underside of his wrist guard, where it lies snugly between the guard and his sleeve. It's the tiniest bit stiff with the paper there, but it doesn't restrict his movement any, and it feels like a good luck token. A protective blessing left by Foggy to watch over him for the weekend. He steps to his window, rubs his wrist one last time above his protection charm, and then he's off.
--
Karen putts her ball into the hole with one graceful swing. Matt claps, then takes his turn. His ball pings off the bridge and halts a foot or two from the hole. Karen leads him over and he taps it in, feeling his way over the fake green to retrieve it while Karen tallies up their scores.
"How the...Matt, we're tied. Again. Are you toying with me?" she demands, poking at him with her mini-golf club.
Matt frowns at her, clutching both his cane and club close to his chest, aghast. "You think I would be so petty? I'm hurt."
"Don't pout at me. I'm watching you, pal. Guilty until proven innocent."
"Looks like we need some remedial law lessons, Ms. Page."
He can almost feel Karen rolling her eyes as she leads them to the next course. "Not as much as we need golf lessons. We're both twenty-two above par."
Matt takes his turn first, smacking the ball right through the windmill with no trouble. He stands on the rocks outside the course, out of his opponent's way, trying to work out if he can tie her again on this stage, or if he'll have to wait for the next one. His phone chimes just as Karen's ball ricochets off a windmill blade and lands on the rocks.
It's a new audio message from Foggy:
"There's some time to kill, so I decided to grace you with my euphonious presence. I know I promised you showtunes, but Brett always vetoes anything that's not West Side Story-
- it's a classic!
- yes, it is, but if you're not going to do the duets with me, what's the-
- I'm trying NOT to jinx my cousin before her wedding, thanks-
- okay, fair. Anyhoo, you'll have to settle for this instead, Matty. Ahem. Oh, shit, the recording's endi-"
The message cuts out, but another one has already arrived while he was listening to the first one. Karen crowds in next to him and presses play on the second text. Thirteen seconds in, they realize this is a mistake.
"-far across the distance and spaces between us-" Foggy wails right into the microphone. Matt can barely make out the sound of Brett laughing in the background.
"Oh my god," Karen says, delighted.
"He can't...it's too high. The next note is too high."
Karen swivels around, looking at their surroundings and giggling as Foggy's voice cracks right where Matt expected it would. "I think we're scaring the children, Matt."
"-once MORE you OPEN the door, and you're here in my heart-"
"I can't just turn it off; he made this for me. I have to listen to the whole thing," Matt says, resolute.
Normally, he'd find Foggy's out of tune warbling to be charming, but the quality of the recording is just so bad. Foggy's way too close to his phone, and there's a violent static from the ambient noise around him. Somewhere in the background there's a baby crying. Still, underneath the intense dedication to his Celine Dion impression, there's the wavering texture of a suppressed laugh. Foggy is unapologetically terrible - and even though it hurts a little to listen to, Matt's probably going to save this recording forever.
The song ends abruptly mid-sentence after the chorus, with text message following in its wake.
(16:34) that's all for now folks
(16:35) I've been asked to save the best for later
(16:35) can't waste my chops on you two
(16:36) stingy
(16:36) have some consideration for us poor unfortunate stepsisters who didn't get picked to go to the ball
(16:37) entertain us while we toil away in the cellar
(16:37) matt I know for a fact you're playing minigolf right now
(16:38) besides, stepsisters always get invited to the ball you dork
(16:38) you suck at fairytales
(16:39) I guess I'm just not as worldly as you
(16:39) worry not my friend
(16:40) you'll get there someday
"Stop flirting and take your turn," Karen says, tapping Matt on the shoulder with her ball. "I already finished."
Matt raises an eyebrow and allows her to lead him past the windmill. "And how many turns did you take?"
"...five."
"Oh, good, that gives me something to work with." He lines up his club carefully, then smacks the ball right out of the green. Karen groans, and begins the long trek over to the rocks where his golf ball has landed.
--
He isn't hurt, really. He's sore and exhausted, and oddly kind of itchy at the base of his neck, but he isn't injured, and yet. He's restless. Not in a way that can be relieved through some vigorous vigilante action, because he's traded his fair share of hits today already and his muscles are creaking enough to prove it. But there's a melancholy in his bones and it's dragging him down, down onto his living room floor, where he lies, clean and aching, and luckily not in a pool of his own blood this time.
There's also no Foggy. The last two days have left him uncomfortably aware of the sudden void where Foggy should be. No vanilla sugar in the office, no running narration or impulsive hugs. No perfect heartbeat.
It's lonely.
Matt rolls onto his side long enough to grab his cellphone off the couch and begin composing a text. He only gets one word out before the neon sign outside sparks loudly, a hissing spritz of electricity, startling him into sending his text prematurely.
(2:27) Foggy
"Wrong," he mutters to himself, and goes to start over, but Foggy answers before he can.
(2:27) hey matt what's up
That's a good question. What would be the right response here? "Beating people up didn't make me feel better today because you're not here" doesn't really sound very pleasant out loud or in text. His phone pings again as he's mulling his response over.
(2:28) are you okay?
Okay? Sort of. Could be better. Matt starts recording with the intention of telling Foggy how adequate he is, but the words don't come out quite right.
(2:28) I miss youHe catches himself before he sends the text, deleting it hastily. Bad move. Try again.
(2:29) I want to hear your voice
What the fuck. His mouth is out of control. He tries one last time, sending off whatever garbled nonsense he spits at his phone after checking that it's not too much.
(2:30) tell me about your day
Acceptable. He couldn't stamp the yearning out of his voice, but it doesn't translate to text, thank God. It's a discreet choice; it's enough to start a conversation without conveying how untethered Matt feels.
While he waits for a response, everything in the world gradually feels more and more present. The sound of a shower running two floors up, the smell of someone burning a fried egg down the hall. The strange music of whatever it is that plays at 1 am on the telenovela channel on the ground floor mixed up in a cherry cough syrup spill from next door. To top it all off, Matt's phantom itch has spread like a contagion from his neck down his back and his arms, leaving him with the stupid desire to slide around on the floor to relieve the irritation.
As Matt's about to crawl up onto his couch to tune into 1C's telenovela, his phone greets him with the most welcome sound in the world: "Foggy, Foggy, Foggy, Foggy..."
He snaps up his phone, answering with an overly eager "Hey! Hello. Good evening." He thumps his forehead against his couch cushion in chagrin.
"Hey, hello, good evening back atcha, buddy," Foggy says, radiating a smile through his words. He's somewhere quiet, and if Matt concentrates very hard, he can make out the slightest trace of Foggy's heart. It makes his itchiness retreat.
"You have time to talk to me? Brett doesn't need you as a wingman?" It's an inane question, but Matt does feel somewhat guilty for interrupting Foggy's vacation.
"He's asleep, so I presume my services are currently unneeded. The wedding's over, Matt," Foggy tells him. "I'm in the hotel lobby now."
"Already? It's only 11. Not gonna do whatever it is people do in L.A.? Clubs? Zoos?"
"Going to a zoo at midnight sounds like a recipe for trouble. Besides, I've got a plane to catch tomorrow. There's like an 80% chance Brett will rescue me if I get trapped in the lions' den, but I'm not willing to bet against the 20% where he and Bess skedaddle and leave me stranded."
"Oof, tough love. Let's nix the zoo then. Maybe staying in is for the best."
"Normally, I'd be the last to agree, but I think I'm down for the count. Way too much dancing and way too much cake."
Matt laughs, climbing up onto his couch. "The real Foggy Nelson would never blaspheme like that. I'm onto you, pod person."
Foggy sighs, leaning in closer to his phone. "I know, I can't believe I said it either. But it's true, Matt. Wedding people are dangerous."
There's the sound of fabric shifting: probably Foggy sitting back into his chair. He doesn't sound like he's getting up any time soon. Nonetheless, Matt still second guesses himself before asking, "How was it?"
"Are you sure you're up for listening to me? It's late, and knowing you, you could do with some more sleep." There's the worry that arises whenever Matt forgets to do something important, like feed himself dinner.
But Matt would rather bathe in cold pizza grease than hang up now. "No, I'll be fine. I want to know about your day. How was the wedding?" he says, using his reassuring lawyer voice.
Foggy recognizes it for what it is and snorts, but obliges anyway, "Okay, but stop me when you start nodding off. At least one person between the two of us should not be jet-lagged on Monday. Anyway, I knew it would be something, but wow. It was spectacular; everything went smoothly and Angie looked great. She was smiling the whole time - good sign. There's always going to be kids running amok and drunk relatives falling over stuff, but all in all, not too disruptive. And like I said, that cake was a miracle..."
Matt feels okay again, like his bruises have already started to fade. He isn't aching anymore, now just tired and worn. Not restless, either. The only obligation he has right now is to lie on his couch and listen to Foggy's story about someone's great-aunt and a bridesmaid's dress. He can't think of a better end to his Saturday night.
--
They wave the Mahoney family off, then board their own taxi. They sit all three of them in the back seat, Foggy in the middle so that Karen can lean into him, and Matt can soak in everything he's been missing for the last couple of days, from as closely as possible. He doesn't actually press his face against Foggy's neck so he can breath him in, because that would be creepy, and Matt is trying very hard to reduce his general creepiness.
They agree to all go back to Foggy's apartment so he can unload his luggage before they head down to Josie's. Unfortunately, the elevator's been out of service since Friday, so Foggy lugs his suitcase up while Karen holds his carry-on and leads Matt with her other arm. They leave the bags sitting on the ground and collapse onto the couch.
"Why do you live so high up?" Karen groans.
"Desperation, mostly," Foggy says, yanking his suitcase over and unzipping it. He moves the clothes up onto the lid, out of the way, and rustles around at the bottom. "Who wants souvenirs?"
"Depends on what it is," Karen says, while tugging on his sleeve in anticipation.
"Stairs, Karen. He brought you more stairs," Matt tells her and she groans again, releasing Foggy, and sitting forward herself to see.
"Don't you two get too excited. We didn't have time to really go anywhere besides the beach, so it's pretty touristy. Also, I'm poorer than dirt."
"High quality dirt," Matt assures him, and Foggy laughs, divvying out a hefty box to each of them.
"Here, some extra fancy wedding swag chocolate for you guys. They had a huge stack of leftovers, but I can't always be that guy who steals all the free food."
"Even the packaging is sparkly," Karen says happily, tapping the box on her lap.
"And some silly novelty t-shirts. This one's for you, Karen, and this one's yours, Matt." Karen laughs at hers, but falls into a fit of hysterical shrieking when she sees his. Matt rubs the raised imprint of whatever's on his shirt, but it's one large image, and he can't make out what it is with his hands.
"Should I ask what this is?" Matt says, shaking his shirt at them, and they giggle some more instead of answering. "Well, I now know I'll need Claire's help if I want to fish all the weird stuff out of my wardrobe."
Foggy flings an arm over his shoulder and leans in to examine the shirt, laughing again. He leaves a smell of something vaguely jasmine scented behind on Matt's clothes.
"Foggy, what is that?" Matt takes a lock of his hair and sniffs it, before remembering that he's not supposed to be creepy anymore.
"That's my luscious hair, buddy. I'm sure you've encountered it before."
"No, what's that smell? Some kind of flower, perfume?" Matt tugs on the strands, feeling the satin slip against his fingertips. He feels both better and worse when Karen starts sniffing Foggy as well.
"Oh, that. Yeah, Angie had this orange blossom tiara in her veil, and she made Brett wear it for her when she got out on the dancefloor, and he made me wear it when he went to talk up one of the groom's sisters. Joey's kids said I was beautiful, so that's all that really matters, I guess. I'm surprised you can still smell it, after my shower and all the weird plane smells."
"It's not bad," Matt says. "Just different." If it had been fresher, it might have overwhelmed him, but this is just a trace sweetness, heavy bodied but weaved gently through the hair around Foggy's crown. Wedding flowers, he thinks numbly, still twirling a lock of hair between his fingers. Mrs. Nelson would probably want Foggy to cut his hair for the ceremony, but they would both veto that decision. Maybe Karen could wear a small sprig of orange blossoms as the maid of honor. That might still be too strong. Perhaps if she could braid them into Foggy's hair a few days before, so the scent still lingered on the day of. Just a touch of something floral, since Matt doesn't think he can handle an abundance of flowers in the church. The flower girl would have to have use silk petals, but that would be fine. It's probably a bigger issue that neither of them have any young immediate relatives to be the flower girl or ring bearer.
"Aw, it's cute!" Karen's voice breaks Matt out of his reverie and he quickly removes his hand back to the neutral territory of his own lap, resting it shamefully on his mysterious novelty shirt.
"What is it, Karen?" he asks, pulling himself together back into the present. She's turning something over in her hands, rubbing the surface of something solid.
"It's a seashell! Fan shaped and kind of golden. Foggy found it himself on the beach," she tells him, passing it over into his hand so he can feel the ridges.
"You get one too!" Foggy trades Karen's shell out for a new one, and Matt feels a smooth, glassy spiral ending in a stubby point. "See if you can hear the ocean with those special senses." He pokes at Matt until he agrees and lifts the shell to his ear, sitting there goofily trying to hear his own blood rush through his ears.
Instead, he hears everything he'd been waiting for this whole weekend. A hop and a skip in heartbeat, unhurried and welcoming, running underneath the murmurs of Foggy and Karen whispering among themselves. There's a vivacity in the sound frequencies, a happy orchestra of hidden laughter, the swish of long hair, the crinkle of plastic being ripped off the chocolate box, and Foggy's little "hey!" as Karen hides her prize. Best of all, besides the percussion line of breath and pulse, is Foggy's voice saying his name.
"Matt?" like a touch to his elbow, drawing him back in. "What do you hear?"
"Does it sound like the Pacific?" Karen teases.
"No, it sounds like home," Matt says truthfully, but they don't understand him. Karen awwws and Foggy complains about finding a defective shell and reporting the beach to the Better Business Bureau.
"I'll dig a better one out of the Hudson for you another day," Foggy promises, but Matt shakes his head, cupping his shell protectively. He's never giving it back.
"No, I like this one. Thank you for the gifts. It was thoughtful of you to remember us."
"Well, how could I forget?" Foggy says, but Karen hugs him in thanks too. "Anyway, I've been sober for a whole 18 hours or something. Let's go change that."
"Hear, hear!" Karen agrees through a ganache cube in her mouth.
"Don't forget tomorrow's Monday. Don't drink the eel. Have I become the responsible one?" Matt wonders aloud as they each grab an arm, and march him out the door.
--
The next morning, a postcard arrives.
It smells like brine and Pacific air, and a hint of coffee and maple. The picture is a mystery, but the indentations of the handwriting are crisp and deep. Matt reads it and then tapes it on the wall above his bed, words facing out. His seashell he keeps nearby as well, so when he wakes up in the middle of the night and can't find his way home, he can take it out and listen. He can curl up and concentrate until he hears the thump thump thump of home again.
Every night, he presses his fingers against the words at the end of his postcard.
Wish you were here with me, buddy.
And every morning, when he wakes up, an insomnia headache nettling his brain, still alone, still wishing Foggy were there with him, Matt gets a step closer to asking his question.
--
On a Monday afternoon, the words finally escape.
"Hey, before you go, I wanted to ask you something..."
Notes:
Edit for confusion: if you're wondering what happens after this last line, it's actually the conversation at the end of this chapter here!
Chapter 4
Notes:
Hello again, beautiful friends! Thank you so much for your patience and support; I'd like to apologize for the delay on this chapter. There's a touch more angst this time, since the rest of the story will honestly just be fluff all the rest of the way home. Also, because none of this series will be taking season 2 into account, you can consider it a canon!AU from the end of season 1.
Thank you all so much again for your kind words! I hope you like the chapter.
Chapter Text
4.
Matt can almost feel it amidst the oscillations in the air around Foggy and the stiffness in his walk. It's a roiling sensation, on the verge of erupting, but Foggy keeps it contained, still marching forward, knees locked. Karen, face blank - poised, professional - keeps tapping the papers in her hands sporadically, aligning the edges to rid herself of her excess energy.
They keep it together even after they exit the courthouse and meet the small gathering of reporters to answer questions. The engagement isn't long; this isn't a high profile case, but it's attracted a little bit of attention with the Bulletin and a few local TV stations. Matt fields the easy queries, projecting confidence still flowing easy from the high of their victory, but he lets Foggy turn on the good ole Nelson charm to give em the 'local boys turned altruist success story' spiel. They lap it up - everyone loves Foggy's priceless smile, his Hell's Kitchen breeding mixed with Ivy League smarts evident in his speech; everyone loves Karen, stately and collected, keeping a supportive hand on their client's arm as she tells the cameras how happy she is that justice has been served.
Their client thanks them profusely again, grateful tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. They each hug her goodbye before her brother comes to escort her away, also spouting his thanks. The three of them continue on after they watch her go, tacitly agreeing on their destination. The bar.
As they power walk to Josie's, the energy bubbling up under Foggy and Karen's skin is close to bursting out. The heat licks out to Matt's hand when he catches Foggy's fingers to give them a squeeze, but nothing comes of it until they're indoors.
Karen reacts first by slapping Matt on the back harder than intended and announcing, "Victory shots! Two for each of us!" Her heels clack sharply against the floor as she charges toward the bar.
"Two isn't too much for this early in the afternoon? Maybe just a beer each, instead?" Matt calls after her.
"Five shots for each of us!" She's chipper, invigorated by today's success. He can almost hear the load of stress leaving her shoulders, bones cracking back into place and tired muscles finally getting their break from the delight in their hard work having paid off.
"Okay, let's do two. Two is good," Matt concedes, trying to yell her down before she gets them all alcohol poisoning.
He makes to go after her, but Foggy tugs him back gently by the sleeve, then the tie. And there's that heat again, that energy, being channeled straight from Foggy's mouth to Matt's, and everything else is temporarily forgotten. When oxygen becomes an important factor again Foggy releases him, but keeps his hands firmly situated on Matt's shoulders.
"We. Fucking. Killed it." His voice is hoarse from overuse, but he sounds happy.
Matt shakes his head, and presses his hand to Foggy's cheek. "No, you killed it. I was more of a courtroom decoration." It's true. Foggy's the one who did most of the grunt work, and pieced together a winning case while Matt was busy taking out a fledgling arms ring last week. Foggy's the one who's been actually toiling away for their clients, making a good name for their firm. Not to say that Matt isn't doing his part, but more and more frequently, he's been feeling the burden of splitting his energy between his daytime and nighttime responsibilities.
Foggy makes a pssh noise, waving his hand dismissively. He pecks Matt on the lips again, before pulling him toward the bar to join Karen, who smells like she's already started without them. "You'll just pick up the heavy lifting for the next one. That's why we're partners, right? We've got each others' backs."
Matt waits for Foggy to pull a chair out for him before sitting. "I know, but don't let me shirk on my part. I'll pull my weight next time."
"Alright, Matty, I'll consider it a promise. Though, you actually better start now, because Karen definitely did not order just two shots for each of us. Can you still drink like we did that at that one Halloween party?"
"No, but I can certainly try."
"I thought we agreed on three?" Karen says, her tone floaty and filled with false innocence.
"Neither of us ever said three," Matt says, fishing a nut from the bowl on the table and lobbing it at her. She mutters 'ugh' under her breath and squirms out of the way. He hears her going in to retaliate, but Foggy swipes the bowl away before she can arm herself.
"Whoa, let's not get ourselves banned by starting a food fight. You two will have to have it out in some other arena," Foggy says, walking away to move the bowl elsewhere.
"Arm wrestling," Karen offers.
"I think you may be at a disadvantage for that one. Anything where we'd be on more equal footing?"
"Calligraphy."
Matt almost laughs in the middle of throwing back his first shot, causing a searing pain in his chest and sinuses. "How bad at calligraphy are you?" he asks, hacking.
"Very. Foggy, what do you think Matt and I could hold a fair competition in?"
Foggy brushes his hand briefly against Matt's back as he passes him on his way back to his seat. "I'd think you're probably both equally atrocious at yoyoing. That's my pick."
Karen's laugh betrays the beginning of tipsiness, a liquid gold pooling in her voice. "Okay then, I'll buy the yoyos tomorrow for our match. Foggy will be the judge."
"I'm obligated to warn you, Karen, that I might be a little biased in Matt's favor. Just a little."
"Foggy," she tsks, clicking her tongue sharp against her palate. "Just because you're his better half doesn't mean you have to show blatant favoritism."
"Just let me have this one, and we can throw down in calligraphy next time," Matt tells Karen, who laughs again, petting him on the wrist before getting up to fetch them some water. Foggy starts telling Matt about the weird encounter his mom had in Hoboken last week, and Matt listens, nodding in all the right places, but his mind is still caught on what Karen said earlier.
Foggy is Matt's better half.
But maybe Matt isn't his.
--
Immediately after their victory, Nelson and Murdock fall into a spell of bad luck.
It starts with Foggy accidentally flinging his phone into boiling hot dog water on Monday, and dropping his hot dog in the gutter to boot. On Tuesday, Karen gets trapped in a tunnel on a subway train for 2 hours with the world's most committed one-man band, who, sadly, knows only six different songs. Matt manages to break both the printer and the office door's handle on Wednesday morning, trapping himself alone in the office ("I can just climb out the window-" "No, you fucking can't, Matt; for the love of God, just wait for help!") until the landlord sends someone to free him. Thursday finds Karen bundled up at home trying to recover from the bug she caught while on her subway adventure.
So it's no surprise that Foggy gets caught up with the most poorly timed shooting in the universe on Friday night.
They're supposed to be meeting for dinner - for date night, as Matt insists on calling it, and which Foggy takes great pains to downplay, since each occurrence recently has consisted of standing on the sidewalk together and trying to eat wings or quinoa salad or Italian sodas without getting anything on their suits while discussing case details, and, well. Therein lies the problem.
"A real date," Matt clarifies, while Foggy crawls around under his desk, attempting to retrieve the free pen from the women's clinic he's dropped. "I want to go somewhere nice with you, instead of always just rushing around and eating frozen dinners on your floor. That's why I made reservations for 9 at that French restaurant where we met Ms. Anders last week."
"Matt," and he can tell Foggy's distracted from the texture of his tone, not just by the pen he still can't find, but by the case whose files are still lying open on his desk, shifting slightly every time the weak bodied air current from the electric fan makes another pass. "This sounds suspicious. Are you up to something? Is this a cover? Are you trying to use me for a stakeout?"
"I wouldn't take you on a stakeout, Foggy. It's too dangerous."
"Hey, I'm plenty dangerous myself, I'll have you know. I'm pretty handy with a pool cue."
"You're terrible at pool," Matt reminds him fondly. "And no, it's not a stakeout. I just thought it might be nice for us to do something special once in a while. I think it's been so long that we've forgotten how dates work."
Foggy slides back out from his crawl space to peek out at Matt just over the edge of his desk. Matt cringes at the sound of papers wrinkling under his grasp. "A fancy French restaurant would be a little more romantic than throwing popcorn at each other while watching specials on Olympic curling." He shuffles backwards until he's freed from his desk, and throws himself back onto his chair with an oomph. "Okay, Murdock, let's do it. I'll meet you there at 9."
"Okay! Great. If you'd like, I can try to move the reservations up? It's only...7:15 right now."
"No, no," Foggy denies, standing up to shuffle his papers back into a pile. Matt puts a binder clip over the papers for him, and they stack the pile neatly in the middle of Foggy's desk. "9 is good. Gives me time to shower and doll myself up. Not that that matters."
"Because I can't see you?"
"No, because you would find me stunning regardless," Foggy declares, throwing his hair back with much panache, Matt can tell.
Matt laughs and catches his hand before he lowers it, using it to draw Foggy forward for a kiss, which he happily presses into. After drawing away still with the taste of Foggy's honey chapstick on his tongue, he admits, "That's true. You could wear a paper sack and still be spectacular. Hm, actually, maybe we could just skip the sack altogether." Why wear anything at all? The more he thinks about it, the more appealing this new idea seems. It's not too late to cancel their reservations.
"Haha, no, I know that look on your face," Foggy says, gently moving Matt out of his way to collect his coat. "You're the one who brought this date thing up, so you can't weasel out of it now."
Turning off the fan and unfolding his cane, Matt follows him out the door, trying to figure out how best to argue his point. "I'm rethinking the idea. There's no spontaneity in it. That really dulls some of the thrill, doesn't it?"
"No-o-ope. I find your foresight and good planning skills extremely attractive. Don't pout; we'll have a good time. I'll meet you there."
Matt sighs, loud and petulant enough to make Foggy laugh at his theatrics. "I regret it already."
He doesn't realize how much he'll regret it until he hears Foggy's heartbeat enter just within hearing range that night, fifteen minutes before they're meant to meet. It's far too fast, pounding and skittering after the downbeat. He drops the shoe he was putting on, trying to concentrate, to suss out any other details, but Foggy's not speaking, or moving. Nothing but the churn of blood, and it's not from exertion. This is a rhythm of fear, and Matt wants to dive out the door and run right over, but he has to be smart. Whatever's happening isn't something Matt Murdock can handle. Tossing his cane aside with a touch too much force, he stalks back to his room. He's going to need his suit for this.
When he arrives on the scene, there are several people present. He can tell Foggy glances up at him from the skip in pulse, and his breathing evening out just slightly, but his attention is completely fixated on the man on the ground. Blood and gunpowder, but none of it's coming from Foggy and Matt shouldn't feel that relieved when there's a gunshot victim on the ground, but he can't help that sliver of comfort that settles in his gut. Foggy's telling the victim to stay calm, keeping pressure around the wound like Claire taught him.
An older woman, voice trembling, points off toward an alley. "He ran off that way! He just, this poor boy, he didn't even say," she babbles, and another bystander tells him, "We already called 911," half as a warning, half as reassurance, so Matt nods, takes one more second to savor in the sound of Foggy's heart, quick and desperate, but safe (and safe is all that matters), and he takes off after the assailant.
Matt follows the trail of gunsmoke and metal until he reaches the fleeing gunman two blocks down, still holding his weapon, dashing through shadows haphazardly, barely trying to remain hidden. Careless. Any more careless and he could have missed his target. Could have hit Foggy instead.
He keeps this in mind when he closes in.
--
"Evening, counselor. Nice night to be walking alone."
Foggy startles, even after all this time, but it really is Matt's fault for cutting him off across the rooftops, trying to silently catch up to him before he returns home from the precinct. "Holy sh- if you're going to lurk, you ought to stay quiet! You can't have it both ways, man. You wanna talk, Daredevil, we can talk, but you're gonna have to come down to my level to do it. You wanna avoid the cops, you stay up there and keep your pretty mouth closed. People craning their necks to have conversations with buildings isn't exactly inconspicuous, and the cops know you've been out tonight." Matt pokes his head out from where he's hanging from the top balcony of the fire escape so Foggy can see him, then drops down landing by landing until he hits the ground.
"You think my mouth is pretty?" he asks as Foggy hurries over in the dark.
"Really not the point." Foggy sounds tired, but there's none of the waver in his voice that goes hand in hand with pain. That doesn't mean he's not hurt though. After tracking him to the police station where he was giving his witness statement, Matt had followed him a good two hundred fifty yards before making himself known, and there's a significant alteration to the rhythm of his footsteps that only developed this evening.
"Why are you hobbling? Are you alright?"
"It's fine, I'm fine. I-uh. I tripped over my own feet when the gunman came at us. We can't all have good instincts like you," he chuckles, but it's mostly humorless. "Twisted my left ankle a bit when I fell on my butt, but he wasn't shooting at me. I'd take a pulled muscle over a gunshot wound any day." Matt closes the distance between them, bending down to examine the injury himself, but Foggy stops him, pulling at his arm until he stands back up.
"I'd really prefer neither fate for you. Let me help. I'll carry you to your street." This time, he bends in order to lift Foggy completely off the ground, but he's stopped again by hands batting his arms down.
"I'm not so bad off I need to be carried home by someone painted into his leather suit," Foggy tells him, trying to be stern but coming across as amused instead. He keeps his hands wrapped around Matt's biceps to prevent any more lifting attempts and he isn't shaking, but his skin is cold, piercing through Matt's suit. They're standing so close that every breath Matt takes fills him up with the scent of cheap police station soap mixed with the sickly dregs of blood still lingering on his clothes, and even though it looks too intimate for people who should be strangers, he doesn't move away. He's not leaving Foggy out here.
"Then at least let me support you; get your weight off that leg. Please. Consider it a favor to me."
Foggy pauses long enough to make it look good for any audience, to keep up the pretense of plausible deniability, but he's squeezing Matt's arms, already beginning to lean into him. "Okay, alright. Come here, then," he says after a few seconds. Matt loops an arm around Foggy's back, and pulls him over so that Foggy rests most of his weight over Matt's shoulders. They walk in the alley, away from straying eyes.
After a few minutes, Foggy coughs and says, "You know, Daredevil, I didn't think you were the type to come back and help random civilians. Thought you were too busy meting out justice to do this kind of thing."
"I couldn't leave my favorite lawyer to crawl home all on his lonesome when there's so much danger afoot."
"Hey now, I wasn't crawling. I have a respectable limp, at worst. And why would a vigilante have a favorite lawyer?" Foggy asks dryly. "Those aren't usually two people seen together unless things have gone drastically downhill."
"Gotta have someone on the side of the law to help me clean up the city. You did good work with Fisk - good work last week, too," Matt admits. "And it doesn't hurt that you're cute." He punctuates his point by moving his hands to more firmly support Foggy's...assets.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, hands off the goods, buddy. I'm in a very committed relationship with the light of my life, and lemme tell you, he does not like to share." Foggy lets go of Matt's shoulder to push his hands back up somewhere more proper.
"Who, your partner? I don't know what you see in him," Matt says offhandedly.
Foggy's teeth click when he snaps his mouth close in confusion. "Is that- are you kidding?"
It was supposed to be a throwaway comment, but the more Matt thinks about it, the more valid the question becomes. Why is Foggy with him? He knows that Foggy loves him; he's spent years learning and relearning it until he could be absolutely certain of that fact, but still, the question remains in his mind, and he wants to prod at it, no matter how much it hurts. It's like picking at a scab: pointless and painful, but the impulse is undeniable. Matt's always assumed he was too selfish to give Foggy up if it came to it, but then again, it had never been a potential issue. Foggy had never been his, but now that he is...who does Matt think he is, to presume to keep him?
"No, I really don't understand. You could do so much better." The words taste bitter in the back of his throat.
"Could I. Really. What's your problem with Matt, Daredevil?" Foggy asks, and if this isn't one of the weirder conversations Matt's ever gotten himself into, then he doesn't know what is. Regardless, he persists. He needs to be sure Foggy knows.
"He's flaky. Inconsiderate. Where was he when you were working yourself to the bone last week? Where was he tonight when you were getting shot at? Ditching your date to do God only knows what." It's all too easy to pick out his flaws when he examines himself from a distance like this.
"None of your points are even remotely true or logical," Foggy scoffs. "Matt had other cases to work on, other leads to follow. And it would have been disastrous if my blind, hero-complex boyfriend had been there to rile up the gunman. Probably would've tried to punch the bullet or some equally foolish display of heroism. Matt has some issues prioritizing, but it's never without a good reason."
Matt isn't going to admit there's more than a half-truth in Foggy's words, so he keeps digging at himself, scratching and scraping until he finds the flaws that he'd rather remain hidden. The dark parts of his soul, the possibilities he doesn't even want to consider could happen, and thus, the most important points of all to consider. "What about that temper of his? Doesn't matter that he's blind. He's the son of a boxer; he knows how to make it hurt. What if- what if he loses control? What if he hurts you?" The bitterness surges up like bile. A pit opens up somewhere between Matt's lungs and his stomach at the thought of ever causing Foggy any harm, but it's too late to turn back now.
"What?" and it's a damaged sound. Foggy's been disarmed, caught off guard and on shaky footing, but he bounces back quickly, his tone morphing into an acrid indignation when he continues, "Don't be an idiot. You don't know him nearly as well as you assume if you think Matt could ever hurt me on purpose. He's not some wild animal. Anybody could be considered a threat under the right circumstances, and Matt would never intentionally put me in harm's way."
"An accident, then," he says, pushing onward. The blight in his gut continues to grow.
"Just because I'm not made of iron like you doesn't mean I'm a delicate flower, pal. I'm from Hell's Kitchen; don't you think I've learned how to protect myself by now? I can hold my own, and I've certainly handled worse than having my stick of a law partner trying to sleep-fight me."
Matt is caught between guilt and relief when Foggy parries each of his points, but he hasn't lost this case yet. At the expense of being completely consumed by the black hole decaying inside him, he plays his last card.
"What if he lies to you again?"
Foggy inhales sharply, an acute shard of breath drawn in one go, and Matt can hear the ice crystallizing in his voice as his whole body stiffens.
"Then we will have words, he and I, many words, some of them probably mean and hurtful and petty, and at least one of us will cry, I'm sure, but you know what? If we can move forward again afterwards, then it'll be worth it. I'm not giving up on him. I ditched a perfectly good soul-destroying, career-making internship for him so we could be nice and poor together, and I'll be damned if I'll let him try and torpedo our relationship. No matter how either of us fuck up, we can move past it. He's it for me." His hand tightens on Matt's shoulder, pressing his fingers in hard, trying to imprint his presence into Matt's skin. Afterwards, he relaxes his muscles, leaning into him again; his tone softening as well. "Look, I don't know what your game is, but I'm not going to break up with my boyfriend just because my resident superhero tells me to."
Truth. Not a single lie, not that Matt's been trying to catch him out on one, but it burns, sweet and agonizing at once to hear it. Because Foggy means it, but that's only because he hasn't considered all the possibilities yet. Foggy's good at hunting down leads, excellent at backtracking until he finds the crucial hint they need, but he's never learned to follow through when it comes to himself. He doesn't ever realize how much more of the world was meant to be his - could be his, if Matt weren't in the way, holding him back, putting him in danger.
"But what if someone better comes along? Someone good; someone who's actually worthy of you?"
Foggy's breath puffs back out as he huffs, "Like who? Even if Captain America himself dove out a plane showering me with riches and declarations of eternal devotion, I wouldn't leave Matt. Time to give it up." He leans his head against Matt's shoulder, and Matt realizes that he's already lost. Foggy has made up his mind; he's no longer taking Matt's protests seriously.
"He doesn't deserve you."
"And who does? My standards are very high, you know. If you want us to break up so badly, you better find me someone better. Or are you offering yourself?" This last question he murmurs right into Matt's ear. Purrs, really. His proximity is causing Matt's neurons to short-circuit.
"I- um. No, not exactly. Not that I wouldn't date you, but, uh. There would be complications. Of a sort." He's stuttering like a fool, brain scrambled from trying to sort out his priorities. Flirting is much easier when he's not playing his alter ego trying to rescue his boyfriend away from himself.
"What happened? Thought you were a smooth talker, Daredevil."
"I think I misplace my wits when I'm around you," Matt tells him seriously. Unexpectedly, Foggy's heart makes a lovely little jump at that, which is a kind of reassurance in itself.
"Then let's not meet anymore," Foggy teases. "That's my street up ahead. You can drop me off here. Thanks for your help, in the physical realm, and no thanks whatsoever for your help in the romantic realm."
Matt releases him, making sure he's standing steadily before slinking back into the shadows. "At least consider my points, could you?"
"No way. Matt deserves everything I could ever give him, and more, so you can go suck a lemon. No one's paying me to argue with you, so I'm gonna head home now. But hey, if you're really that lonely, I can find you someone. What's your type, blond lawyers? Someone who really gets your blood pumping? Hoo boy, do I have someone for you. She'll keep you on your toes for sure."
Matt is not even going to entertain the thought of any version of him dating Marci Stahl. "...no, thank you. Have a good night, Mr. Nelson. Please be careful in the future."
"I'll do my best. Good luck out there, Daredevil. Try not to dream about me tonight," Foggy replies, and Matt knows with an appalling certainty that he's winking right now.
Matt sneaks back up to the rooftops to wait until Foggy enters his apartment to return to his own. As usual, he stays a minute longer, letting Foggy's pulse fill up the rancid, hollow hole inside him, soaking it up until he feels himself starting to heal.
--
"Mac and cheese or chicken? Chicken comes with pilaf," Foggy says, peeling away the film on their frozen dinners. The steam rises out to fill the room as Foggy shuffles away to throw out the plastic, and Matt tugs the tray of chicken across the island to himself, using a fork to stab into the meat, making sure it's cooked. He's dressed down again, having given up on looking his best after changing back out of the Daredevil suit. It's 11:30 now; the restaurant has long since closed for the night.
"A pilaf fan, I see," Foggy notes as he returns with a glass of water for each of them.
"I'm sorry," Matt mumbles, stabbing his chicken a few more times. He should call the restaurant again tomorrow. Ask if there are any openings left.
Foggy hums, breathing in the scent of his microwaved dinner. "No worries, I like the mac and mashed potatoes better anyway."
"No, I meant about date night." He takes pity on the entree and goes to fluff up the rice instead, raking through the grains in circles, a zen garden of rice and almonds."Tonight was supposed to be special and instead you twisted your ankle and I broke someone's jaw. Not exactly what I would call a rousing success."
"True," Foggy says, blowing gently across the top of his dinner, sending the fake cheese fumes into Matt's lungs. "But! We both made it back in one piece, and the victim's going to recover. I think that's a win for today." His sleeve rustles and Matt reaches out to take his profferred hand. He squeezes tight, not so tight as to hurt Foggy, but enough that he feel the creases in his palm and the running pulse underneath his skin. Safe and alive.
"Anyway, who says this can't be romantic too?" Foggy muses. "I think I've got some emergency candles stashed somewhere; light a few of those, slide these dinners onto some real china, and we're good. It'll be just like that scene in Lady and the Tramp."
"Minus the spaghetti. And the alleyway, though I think I could settle for your kitchen instead."
"Buddy, if you want spaghetti, I will make you spaghetti. I have at least four unopened boxes left."
"Still?" Matt thought they were already down to one. Wait, did he buy a few more boxes last week, or two weeks ago? He can't remember now.
"See, you say that as if it isn't completely your fault. I thought I told you to quit it with the pasta."
"Well, when the alternative is frozen mac and cheese and powdered mashed potatoes..."
"Excuse you, the box says that all the ingredients are 100% fresh."
"Oh, sorry, let me read it again," Matt says, putting his fork down to hold his hand out. Foggy snorts, and pushes his hand away.
"Eat your chicken, you goofball."
When they've finished dinner, Matt curls up next to Foggy, helping him ice his ankle with a pack of frozen vegetables as they watch a rerun of Jeopardy on some random cable channel. It's cozy. Easy. After tonight's bout of uncalled for excitement, Matt can't say he minds. Most days, this is exactly all he would ask for, but occasionally he worries there isn't the same zest or passion that there was when they first started dating. Then again, perhaps they've left the dating stage of their lives behind. Perhaps they've again settled into the durable constancy of a long-term relationship, this time a romantic rather than platonic one.
It doesn't mean that Foggy's heart doesn't still sing when Matt smiles at him from across the room, or that Matt's breath doesn't catch when Foggy walks past him, his fingertips skimming against Matt's elbow, a trace of vanilla even beneath the scent of fabric softener and shampoo. He's still as hopelessly taken with his partner as he was when they were just roommates. These days, he can come home to and wake up beside Foggy whenever he wants, but it doesn't lessen his desire to press in even closer until there's no distance remaining. It feels wrong to demand more when he's already so happy, but when Matt wants something enough, it's only a matter of time before he gives in. Before he springs his final question.
Matt's known since before he even turned twenty-five that one day he'd be proposing to Foggy, but it wasn't until the last few years that he became certain Foggy would say yes. He doesn't think he's fucked those chances up tonight, despite how awkward it's going to be when Foggy confronts him over it, but he needed to know. He had to be absolutely sure that the happiness and love he can give outweighs the trouble he brings to Foggy's life. And he needed Foggy to know this as well, to reflect on whether Matt is what he really needs, when he could have so much more.
"Hans Christian Andersen," Foggy tries for the $1200 question, breaking Matt out of his thoughts. He's been crushing cauliflower into icy shards for the last two minutes.
"Wasn't he Danish?"
"Was he? Oh, Charles Perrault, okay. Shit, I suck at fairytales too." Foggy lifts his leg out of Matt's lap and shifts so they're snug up against one another as a competitor discovers the daily double.
"I'm willing to overlook this defect in your personality."
"Thanks. Speaking of personality flaws," Foggy says, and Matt doesn't wince, not quite, but he does tense, which Foggy notices. He puts his hand on Matt's knee, resting it there. "I know you're not going to want to discuss this, but I need to know. What's up with all the anti-Matt sentiment earlier? I really don't think Daredevil and I can be friends if he keeps it up." His fingers jitter on Matt's leg, like he's playing a scale on the piano.
The words leave Matt reluctantly. "I just. I wanted to be certain you knew you had options. Just because I love you doesn't mean I'm any good for you. I wanted you to remember things won't always be perfect between us." He should say more. Explain himself, but Foggy's already had to defend their relationship once tonight, and Matt doesn't want to push his luck.
Foggy stays quiet for a minute, and Matt knows he's studying his face, searching for a tell in Matt's expression. "Matt, what do you want for me?" he finally asks. There's no particular inflection to the questions, no annoyance or frustration that Matt can suss out.
It's a simple question, so Matt answers honestly. "I want you to be happy, of course."
This time, Foggy does sigh, but when he speaks, Matt can feel the form of his words are shaped around a smile. A rueful one, surely, but a smile nonetheless. "And do you know what makes me happy? You do. You have to know by now how I feel about you. I meant every word I said earlier. I've loved you for years, Matt. I know every annoying and terrible thing about you, just like you do about me, even before we got together, and we wound up here anyway. We've worked through a lot of shit already and come out okay on the other side. If you want to get rid of me at this point, you'll have try a bit harder."
"No, that's definitely not what I want. I love you too much." He answers so quickly that it sounds more forceful than intended, but Foggy just flops onto his shoulder, satisfied. His hair tickles Matt's neck, and he's so wondrously soft that Matt forcibly relaxes his stiff muscles so he's not all sharp angles digging into Foggy's side.
"Then, we're good, right? I love you, you love me, we're a happy family?" He sings the last few words to their signature tune.
"Ugh. Never mind. Murdock out." Matt starts to get up, but Foggy pins him into place with his arms, so he ends up dropping the bag of cauliflower on the floor and falling onto his back, lying flat across the couch. Foggy takes one of the couch cushions and places it over Matt's torso to weigh him down; Matt settles into his spot and pretends to be defeated, smiling dopily when Foggy leans over to kiss him on the forehead.
"Nope, no escape for you. Remember, you and me, for better or worse, blah blah blah. Totally married, so stay here and accept your fate." He scoots over and sits with his knees up so that he's trapped Matt's legs under him.
Matt nods. "Totally married, right. Don't worry, no more complaints from me."
"Good. Now how much money were we at?" The show has gone to commercial; they've missed most of the episode at this point.
"Probably negative a thousand after you flubbed that Charles Perrault question."
"Well, we can just make it up in final jeopardy, then."
"I don't think they allow you to bet with negative dollars, Foggy."
"Dreadful rule," Foggy says, as the last commercial ends. "Oh, look, the topic is the Byzantine Empire."
"My fourth favorite empire. Alright, Nelson, let's win us back that $1200," Matt says, sitting up and letting the pillow topple to the ground.
As Foggy muses over the final question, Matt muses over how best to learn his ring size without him finding out. Tonight, he's finally resolved to do it. If he hasn't scared Foggy off, then this is the only logical end. Foggy said it himself; he's Matt's forever, as Matt is his, so it's about time they made things official. Totally married isn't just going to be a turn of phrase anymore.
He better start writing his proposal speech.
Chapter 5
Notes:
Okay, I know it has been literally a year since I last updated, so I just want to thank anyone still reading this so so so much for your patience - I adore you all. Thank you so much for all of your support! This chapter takes place before the epilogue of never could lie.
Just the epilogue left after this one! Hope you like the chapter, and thanks again!!
Chapter Text
5. (6, 7, etc.)
It almost goes like this:
Matt wakes in a haze, still dizzy with sickness, aching and stuffy and generally maladjusted to being alive at the moment. He’s been down with a cold for two days now, and it’s possibly the most miserable he’s been all year. Worse than broken bones and fractured ribs. He feels trapped in his own skin, trapped in a building that reeks of his illness, and it doesn't help that he can't patrol when his senses are hindered. He's an awful mix of antsy and fatigued, and with a hideous amount of wiggling, he lurches upward, trying to climb out of his undertow of sheets. His arms swing around, trying to find a spot to anchor to, and he almost knocks his seashell off his bedside table as he flails.
“Hey, whatever you're doing in there, stop it,” comes Foggy’s voice, like a swath of light cutting through the mist, and Matt slumps back down, temporarily placated. Foggy is here, which is good because that means he's close and safe and Matt won't have to worry about him getting hurt while he's out of commission. But then he thinks about it a little longer, his brain finally kicking into gear, and he realizes it's actually terrible that Foggy’s here, because Matt will infect him. And then they'll both make Karen ill again, and then she’ll sue them because they can't afford to give her anymore sick leave, and the firm will crumble as her departure causes the first of several rifts in their relationship, until one day Foggy gets fed up with it all and el grande avocados will be no more. Matt’s life will become a shambles.
“Wow, what could you possibly be thinking so hard about already?” Foggy asks, suddenly sitting at the foot of the bed. Matt doesn't startle, but he does frown, his face becoming pinched at the thought that he’d been too distracted to notice Foggy coming over.
“I need to be quarantined. For the greater good,” Matt says. His voice is half gone, and his throat feels clogged with gravel and sand. He coughs painfully into his arm, shrinking back into his pillow to minimize any point of contact between the two of them.
Foggy chuckles, his entire presence a soothingly warm spot in the disgusting bacteria infested illness prison that Matt calls his apartment.
“I know you think you’re dying, but it really is just a cold. Even Claire said so.”
Claire. Had she stopped by? He can't sense any lingering trace of her, but his senses are garbage right now, and his brain may as well be scrambled eggs. He can barely even remember what he spent the last 24 hours doing.
Foggy bounces absently on the edge of the bed while he rolls up his sleeves. If he blocks out all the rest of the static, Matt can concentrate enough to hear the crinkle of fabric again, though it feels like he's trying to learn to live underwater. After folding up his cuffs, Foggy answers, “No, she didn't come over; she had somewhere else to be. I think she might actually be on speed dial for every vigilante in the city?”
Matt squints at him. “Was I talking out loud without realizing it?”
“Nah, you’ve been a little feverish, but you haven't become delirious yet. Your expression says enough.” Foggy moves into Matt’s space, the movement preceded by a creak in bed springs as he shifts his weight inward. “You're wearing something close to Confused Face #8, usually reserved for classic moments such as ‘shit, I know I should know this person’s name, but I barely even remembered to brush my hair this morning.’ Though your brows are closer to Sort Of Hungry #3.”
“Really? I feel like I'm projecting Regretfully Awake #26 pretty hard right now.”
Even now, after years and years, it causes a considerable lift in Matt’s spirits to hear Foggy laugh. The sound is accompanied by the cool touch of the back of Foggy’s hand against Matt’s forehead, soothing despite the slightly gross sensation of Foggy’s knuckles sticking to the skin left tacky from sweat. The first thing Matt needs is a shower.
He tells Foggy as much, and with his help, frees himself from the covers. They make their way to the bathroom, with Matt staggering like an injured foal, and Foggy deposits him carefully in a blob on the floor.
“I'll be back to check that you haven't washed away down the drain if you're not out in twenty,” Foggy says as Matt adjusts the temperature of the water.
“If you join me, you won't have to work about that.”
“And risk getting distracted and letting my soup burn? Nope, not today.”
“Soup?” There does seem to be the scent of chicken broth coming from the kitchen, though it's hard to tell through his stuffy nose.
“The one and only Nelson family special! As of 2010. Dad found it online.”
Matt steps into the shower as steam begins to fill the room. “A long and hallowed tradition, I see.”
“Cures all wounds and wills away all woes,” Foggy assures him, throwing his discarded pajama pants toward the wall, out of the way. “It should be ready around the time you're done, so don't dawdle.”
With that, he leaves the bathroom humming a car dealership jingle, and Matt leans against the shower wall with hot water coursing around him, trying to clear the illness from his brain. The shower doesn't last long, no need this time around for Matt to scrub himself so clean he sandpapers away a layer of skin. He's full of steam and feeling damp in odd patches even after he's finished changing and brushing his teeth, but much less fuzzy and miserable, so he shuffles into the kitchen.
“In retrospect, maybe soup for breakfast wasn't the best idea,” Foggy tells him, still watching the pot. He stirs his wooden spoon in an abstract, twirling pattern - that much Matt can tell from hovering by his side.
“No, soup’s great. Much better than Eggo Supreme.” Matt sits himself heavily into a chair, trying to catalogue everything he can sense right now. He's doing better than before, but that's not saying much.
“Hey, I told you those words were taboo in this house. I don't need to be reminded of that debacle.”
“What kind of best friend would I be if I ever let you live it down?” Matt asks.
“A better boyfriend, that’s what kind.” Foggy tsks reproachfully. He’s scooping soup up and dumping it back in the pot for some unknown reason.
“Well, I can hardly compete with you for title of best boyfriend, so why try?”
“I feel like you think you’re being smooth, but it’s hilariously out of character, you dork. You don't know how not to try. Over-achiever.”
“Not true,” Matt protests as he heaves himself back to his feet in order to fetch them some bowls. One has a chip in the rim that they sanded safely down to a rounded, porcelain dip. Foggy had dinged it against the sink edge once while getting too into his weekly dishwashing/lip-syncing show; it's Matt’s favorite bowl now. He sets the bowls down on the counter while trying to scrounge up a defense against this attack on his character. “I didn't try very hard the other day when we were playing scattergori- wait, no, I didn't mean that-”
“Aha!” Foggy shouts, triumphant. Matt doesn't need to be able to hear the sound of liquid against tile to know that Foggy’s just whipped his spoon around and splattered soup all over the floor. “Shit, I'll wipe that up,” he mutters, but his voice charges straight back into accusation mode as he continues waving his weapon at Matt. “I knew you threw that game, you traitor-”
“Look, Karen was very persuasive with her-”
“No excuses, buddy. Too little, too late.” With careful steps Foggy avoids the wet spots on the floor and deposits Matt’s almost-overflowing bowl of soup before him. “Now drink up. This is your punishment.”
“Ineffective negative reinforcement,” Matt tells his soup, but he takes the offered spoon. Despite the taste being dulled by illness, he can still tell it's good soup, and it warms him before the chills from his drafty living room can set in. As he drinks another spoonful, he wonders guiltily how long Foggy’s been toiling away at it for his sake.
“I know that look. What are you blaming yourself for now?” Foggy plops down in the chair across from Matt, blowing noisily on his own bowl of soup as he waits for a response.
“Catching a cold like an idiot. Be honest. How long have you spent making this soup for me?” Matt asks gravely, and Foggy puffs out a dismissive noise that doubles as a burst of cool air over the surface of his soup.
“That’s something you don’t need to worry about. Ah, nuh-uh, I don’t want to hear it,” Foggy says, putting his hand over Matt’s mouth to stop his protests. Matt’s tempted to lick his palm to make him recoil, but he doesn’t want to spread any more germs than he already has. “You aren’t putting me out, Matt. You are my boyfriend and my partner, and I love you even if you treat getting sick like the fall of Rome. Which is why I made you soup. So have at it.” He takes a sip himself, hums ambivalently, then grumbles to himself, “Why am I drinking this? Should’ve made myself french toast.”
“Don’t complain. This is the best soup I've ever had in my life.”
“That's cute, but I know you can barely taste it,” Foggy says, smiling around his spoon.
“I'm not joking,” Matt insists after downing another warm, somewhat tasteless gulp. “I would marry you just for a chance to have this soup again,” he starts to say before he releases most of the words into his broth as bubbles when he realizes that this is a really shitty way to broach the subject of marriage. “I’ll make you french toast when I’m better,” he offers hastily instead, pretending he isn’t exhaling carrot chunks and chicken bits.
“Hard pass on that, thanks,” Foggy laughs. Matt frowns; it’d taken several more years than it really should have, but he’d finally convinced Foggy he was not, in fact, an absolute disaster in the kitchen. But Foggy stands behind his decision not to let Matt cook anything unsupervised, which - considering every other aspect of Matt’s life - seems like a weird hill to choose to die on, but Matt supposes he can let Foggy have this one. Foggy is still the better baker between the two of them.
Matt finishes his soup around the time Foggy finishes toasting himself an English muffin. He lowers himself against the counter to rest his head while Foggy crunches through butter and bread. His eyelids are heavy, though he doesn’t feel an ounce of sleepiness in him.
“I don't know why I feel so…” The word doesn't come to him. Matt’s brow creases as he lowers his head to the counter to rest there. Across the table, Foggy brushes the crumbs from his hands. The faint scent of his breakfast lingers on his fingertips, even after he wipes his hand clean on a wet paper towel.
“Tired?” he offers.
“Is that the word people use these days?”
“It’s because you only slept for four hours,” Foggy says, his voice making it very clear that he finds this insufficient. Matt thinks it's not half bad, considering.
“It feels like I was under for much longer,” he mumbles against the glassy chill of the faux marble countertop. “I don't think I can sleep again so soon.”
“Well, there are other ways to rest. We’ll find something to do.”
They wind up on the couch. Matt lies sprawled across the length of it under a blanket, his head pillowed on Foggy’s lap, and the rest of him caught in the limbo state of being both desperate for the desire to move and so uselessly boneless that he can’t do anything about it. Foggy had managed to wrestle him into place despite Matt’s initial protests, claiming that if he was going to catch any illness from him, it'd have happened already.
Outside, the city’s quiet call settles at his window, a wispy tapestry of sound too evenly-threaded to cause Matt any alarm. He’s growing too comfortable in this spot, bubbled up in Foggy’s space, under the weak beams of sunlight falling in, made warm only against Foggy’s skin. He should be doing something useful, like reviewing the brief he started on Tuesday, but he’s so caught up in the feeling of home around him: the heated weight of Foggy’s hand resting over Matt’s heart, the hushed harmonic rise and fall of Foggy’s voice as he reads aloud to himself and Matt, vanilla and salt and linen on his skin, and sunshine clinging to his hair. And really, in the end, home is just Foggy, which is why Matt finds himself drifting before half an hour passes.
He still can’t sleep, but as far as purgatories go, floating here in an ocean of Foggy’s presence is just about the best that he can ask for. He tunes back into the book Foggy began one night while waiting up for him to return from his business.
“While the police-officer was still pondering in solitude, I was sent for to see Mr. Franklin in the library,” Foggy reads, accidentally mussing up Matt’s hair as he reaches to turn the page.
“It’s a good name. Franklin. Stately,” Matt remarks.
“For a nice, upright, young English gentleman, sure. For yours truly, not so much. Oh, Rosanna’s back; listen. To my unutterable astonishment, just as my hand was on the door…”
Foggy brushes his hands gently through Matt’s still-drying hair as he reads, and the words fade into the background. Instead, Matt concentrates on Foggy’s heartbeat singing for him as he tries to collect this moment into words, so that Foggy can understand. Home and sanctuary and sunlight. But in this state, every thought slips away like water from a sieve. He’s simply too tired.
Matt closes his eyes. He’ll have time to work on it later.
--
Another time, like this:
Matt hadn't expected Hungry Hungry Hippos. He had known that Foggy would manage something, but it had completely escaped his notice that the firm owned a copy of this terrible game.
Their client’s son squeals happily as he hammers away at the buttons, and the damned rattling of marbles hurtles on. Matt isn't sure if his annoyance with the unholy sound of hippo food ricocheting against cheap plastic outweighs his thankfulness that Foggy’s kept the boy entertained for close to two hours without interruption. Matt likes kids well enough, but his skills with them are much less stellar than his partner’s.
But while Foggy’s been handling babysitting duty, Matt’s tied up matters for tomorrow in record time with Karen’s help. Leaving their client some space in his office to call his wife, Matt exits and heads toward Foggy’s office to let him know they’re finished for the day. He pushes the already opened door further ajar, stepping into the doorway, but he pauses when he hears a peal of laughter coming from the room. It’s followed by Foggy’s scandalized gasp.
“...holy guacamole, how did you win again? Are you cheating? You’re hiding marbles up your sleeve, aren’t you, Mr. Blanchard?”
Tiny Jamie Blanchard, who’d come in hiding behind his father’s legs and mumbling answers only when spoken directly to, laughs again. “You can’t cheat at Hungry Hungry Hippos, Mr. Nelson. It’s impossible,” he scolds.
“Sure you can. Watch. You hold this side, like that, yep. And I’ll just…” Matt wonders briefly where this is headed, and has to suppress a laugh himself when the next thing he hears is the sound of marbles scattering all over the table and floor.
“Mr. Nelson! I told you!” Jamie shrieks gleefully as marbles continue to fall.
“You did, bud. You were completely right. Guess we’re playing cleanup now.” They drop to the floor, crawling around like they’re trying to catch rats. Foggy must be getting carpet fuzz all over his suit. Matt observes them for another minute; Jamie’s father is still on the phone. Foggy’s telling his captivated audience (which, unbeknownst to him, includes Matt like always) about the time he made a Rube Goldberg machine for school but the marble rolled off-track and resulted in a flag getting set on fire. Matt’s heard it all before, but there’s a little more pizzazz to the story when it’s being relayed to an nine-year-old. Somehow it’s become the caper of the century.
“What's up?” Karen asks as she passes Matt still floating aimlessly in the doorway.
“Nothing,” he says, fiddling with his glasses to pretend he doesn't look stupidly besotted. As if he isn’t constantly devastated by how truly, sublimely good Foggy is. “I just...love Hungry Hungry Hippos.”
“Obviously.” He can feel the smirk in her words and she bumps him affectionately with her hip on her way out.
They see the Blanchards to the door after Jamie promises Foggy a rematch, and set about closing up for the night. Matt sends Karen on ahead of them, and conscripts Foggy into helping him organize their files for tomorrow. As expected, Foggy begins humming to himself a third of the way through. Lyrics make their grand appearance soon after, but the real star of the show is the delight that enters Foggy’s voice when Matt joins in for the last verse.
“My stars, is that Matthew Murdock breaking out the ol’ song and dance on this blessed day?” Foggy exclaims, affecting some odd, 50’s radio announcer accent.
“Just the song. No dance,” Matt says, as if this isn't going to goad Foggy on.
And of course it leads right where Matt expects: with a hmph, Foggy strides purposefully over and steals him away from his paperwork. “Then let’s fix that.”
Matt allows himself to be man-handled into position and they begin to sway. As usual, it's barely more than a shuffling tour of the room in winding hoops across the floor, but Matt’s not complaining. Not when he's close enough to Foggy to feel everything.
They make a few lazy rounds, Foggy still humming a serenade for them, and Matt gradually lessening any distance until they’re pressed chest to chest and he can feel the feathery brush of Foggy’s hair against his cheek.
“Are you trying to absorb me like a hagfish again?” Foggy asks when Matt squeezes his hand.
“Maybe,” Matt mumbles into Foggy’s hair.
“I thought we agreed that wouldn’t work.” Foggy laughs, low in his throat, and draws a series of squares across Matt’s back with his free hand. All of it sends shivers though Matt’s skin, and he holds on even tighter.
“Just checking again in case.” At this point, they’re barely dancing at all, just waving slightly like saplings under a stiff wind. “Do you ever wonder why we haven't gotten any better at this?” he ponders aloud.
“Well, it's not my fault, because I'm a spectacular dancer. And I know it's not your fault, because of course you've got the coordination and sense of rhythm to pull off anything even vaguely athletic. Ergo, the conclusion must be that...we’re...cursed? You fight any witches lately?”
“Not since last year, nope.”
“Then I'm stumped.”
“I suppose it doesn't matter. We just have to be passable enough to make a nice showing at-” our wedding “-the company holiday party.” He catches himself long before he says the wrong thing, but he's still thankful Foggy’s not the one with super senses because he'd have certainly felt the hiccup in Matt’s composure just then.
“So, in front of Karen and Claire. And Brett, if I can strong-arm him into coming.”
“It's very important that I make a good impression on Detective Mahoney,” Matt says earnestly, and Foggy sighs.
“Way too late for that, buddy. Leave him alone. I mean it.”
“Foggy, I just want to extend an offer of friendship to your longtime nemesis. What's so wrong about that?”
“Murdock, I so do not need the trouble that's going to come haunt me because you can't stop yourself from harassing cops at both of your jobs.”
“Fine, fine, I'll leave him be. During my day job,” Matt acquiesces reluctantly, trying not to grin when Foggy pinches him gently at the waist. To win back some more positive attention he leads Foggy into a quicker tempo, sweeping him toward the desk and back, and blatantly changes the subject.
“So, ‘holy guacamole’, huh? Poetic,” he teases. It's cute how Foggy tries to adjust his language around children. His exclamations get a little off-kilter.
Foggy matches him step for step, feet falling consciously into the right places. “Hey, I’m just trying to stay true to our roots. Avocados, that's what we're about. Avocados and justice.”
“Sounds like a tagline. Should we add it to the sign?”
“Great idea. Shows the clientele right away what they’re in for. Here at Nelson and Murdock, we take law very seriously.” Foggy uses his courtroom demeanor to deliver that line, but he can’t hide the smile that’s breaking through underneath.
“Quite seriously,” Matt agrees, and spins them once more past the door. They slow again, and Matt feels a slight dip in Foggy’s pulse, usually correlated with sleepiness. He lets them trail to a stop. “Are you falling asleep on me?” he demands, patting Foggy’s cheek briskly, enjoying the disgruntled noise Foggy makes. “I’m not that bad of a dancer, Foggy.”
“Except when you are. I am pretty damn certain you’ve been cursed.” He leans forward, resting his forehead against Matt’s shoulder. Matt knows their current cases have been keeping him up, but hopefully his sleeping patterns will return to normal after tomorrow. A hot cup of his favorite tea and a long bath should help.
“If it really bothers you that much, I’ll hop down to magic urgent care and get it checked out.”
“You do that,” and Foggy’s turned his head so that Matt can feel the words as he mouths them against his throat. The sleepiness has progressed to the next stage, where Foggy becomes sweet and pliant and clingy, which Matt doesn’t mind at all. But the next part, where Foggy passes out on him in their office whilst standing up, he could do without.
“Alright, let's take this tango to go,” he says, helping Foggy straighten up.
“Where to?” Foggy yawns as he slides into his coat that Matt holds open for him. “My place or yours?”
Ours, Matt thinks wistfully. But that’ll come a little later. For now, he links his arm with Foggy’s as they leave their office for the night, with Foggy sleepily narrating their walk home. For now, he still needs some time to find the right words.
--
And memorably, during the worst company trip of all time, like so:
Hunched under a beach umbrella that’s only barely doing its job to protect him from the elements (sun, sand, seaweed, the screeches of happy vacationers), Matt glares out at the ocean, cursing its seductive pull. It was his fault, really. Foggy and Karen had told him they’d be happy going anywhere, but he’d insisted. Told them he could handle a day of fun in the sun, but that had been a malicious case of self-deception, because the last thing he wants to do right now is anything beach-appropriate.
According to the weather report, it’s one of the early-rising warm days before summer begins, wherein “warm” is a synonym for “Death Valley hot,” and the only reason Matt doesn't roll himself up in his towel to protect himself from the endless barrage of sand on his skin is because he's pretty sure he’ll suffer a heat stroke and die. He settles for scrunching into a compact ball of anguish, and contemplates the difficulties of fighting a trafficking ring on the beach.
Foggy enters his radar: a constant, reliable blip in the map of white noise. He winds through a jagged path in the sand to drop in next to Matt, and then there's nothing but the shocking relief of ice and moisture on his cheek. It’s the forgiving bend of plastic and bright, sharp tang of citrus; Matt takes the probably overpriced cup of lemonade from where Foggy’s pressed it to his face.
It’s too sour and the cup is full of more ice than anything else, but Matt gulps it down desperately and clutches his frozen treasure tight, feeling the bite of cold in his palms. “Fog, you’re a lifesaver,” he rasps out.
“Don’t worry, we can go soon. I’m all swum out and Karen’s starting to turn pink. Thanks for putting up with us,” Foggy says, leaving a kiss on Matt’s forehead. He’s damp with seawater and his skin carries the sticky scent of lemonade and the sunscreen Matt helped apply.
“Thanks for putting up with me,” Matt replies. He’s stationed in the barest part of the beach they could find, as far from everything else as possible, but neither Foggy nor Karen minded the inconvenience. “Maybe next time I’ll actually go swimming.”
“Nah, next time we’ll go somewhere nice and clean and quiet. Oh, but I don’t want you to leave here with nothing. Here.” Foggy reaches into the pocket of his swim shorts, and Matt hears the windchime scratch and clink of something akin to glass. He holds out his hands, into which Foggy dumps his gift.
Matt almost drops the whole handful, not expecting as many pieces as he receives. Putting his cup aside, he feels over the slick, hard pieces: scalloped fans and sand-smoothed edges among raised points and swirling curves.
“Are these…”
“Seashells! I know you like that dinky one I got you from California, but I thought we could do better than that. Got some nice beach glass mixed in there too.” Foggy starts pointing to and describing each one.
Matt files away all the information, and puts his hoard carefully in his beach bag. All in all, Foggy has brought him eleven shells. He won't have enough room to leave them all by his bed, but he can probably find spots around the apartment for them.
“Thanks Foggy, they're lovely, but what was wrong with the first one?” he tells Foggy, who’s now drinking the remains of his lemonade, and pulling a face at how not great it tastes.
“Nothing, but you deserve more than one lousy shell; I’m gonna find you a whole collection of ‘em. One for each year I’ve known you - how about that?”
“I think you've already got that covered,” Matt tells him warmly, and Foggy laughs.
“Alright, an extra twenty or so to make up for the years before we met. And an additional one for each year we make it through together from now on. An even hundred should be good,” Foggy says, clapping Matt’s knee firmly, like it's a done deal. Matt likes how definite it sounds. A promise to stay together, no matter what comes their way.
He has a promise of his own to offer, but it's still not ready, so instead of blurting out half-finished, incomprehensible declarations of devotion he sits himself behind Foggy and starts combing through his wet hair, cautiously undoing the tangles and knots.
“You think we'll make it to a hundred?” he asks as he forms a slipshod braid, then reconsiders and smooths the longer strands back out.
“Like you'd really let me die any sooner than that. Pretty sure you’d pull an Orpheus and Eurydice style ploy if I dared.”
“True. I wouldn’t fuck it up, though. Orpheus was a fool.”
“Of course not,” Foggy agrees, leaning back into him as they wait for Karen to return. Matt’s still on the edge of overwhelmed, but with Foggy here to anchor him, the beach seems less dire than before. Maybe he’ll give it another chance in the far, far future.
The summer season comes out in full force, but Nelson and Murdock are back to business as usual. Mostly usual. Work is the same, but Matt’s found himself more and more distracted at home.
He hadn’t thought the seashells would be an issue. It’s not like his apartment is full to the brim with any other decorations, and none of them take up much space, but suddenly, it feels like they’re everywhere, along with a million other reminders of Foggy’s existence. There are the obvious things of course, like spare toothbrushes and extra clothes, and a misshapen pillow that Foggy’s aunt made for him when he was a kid that’s wound up with a permanent home on Matt’s bed. And the housewarming touches that accompanied Foggy, like the three (three!!) slotted spoons that are now housed in his cutlery drawer, and the coatrack of questionable integrity that’s taken root by his doorway. But these days he barely takes a step before sidestepping one of the soft, indoor slippers that Foggy received as a gift from a client, and he’s gotten a spot of blood more than once on one of Foggy’s tattered second hand paperbacks that are left lying around on his tables.
There’s a half-empty jar of raspberry jam in Matt’s fridge and a bottle of Foggy’s shampoo in his bathroom. Patterned ties in his closet and handwritten post-its on his pantry doors. He’s pretty sure he’s acquired a shower curtain dotted with spaceships, of all things. The other day, he’d reached for his watch and wound up discovering one of their old toy dinosaurs wearing a tiny scallop shell for a hat. Fortunately, no snack food hoards burrowed away in his cupboard or amongst his yarn stash yet.
At this point, Matt has to admit that they’ve grown used to living together once again, which means he really has no excuse whatsoever for his dawdling. He needs to get a move on. But, if anything, being so conscious of his imminent plans makes his control even worse.
By the third time Matt almost blurts out “Please marry me,” in the middle of court because Foggy is kicking the opposing counsel’s ass, he decides maybe it's time to get a grip. It's time for discipline.
So he buckles down and finally starts drafting. This is his proposal. It needs to be perfect.
--
Matt doesn’t have many perfect memories.
There are some that precede his accident: moments he returns to when he wants to remember his father’s face. Time takes its toll on memory, and perhaps it’s worn these thin as well, but they’re all he has.
After the accident are some scattered bright spots, until his father’s death, and then they come few and far between. Until he meets Foggy.
There’s never been and never will be anything in Matt’s life brighter than Foggy.
That's only a fraction of what he wants to say, but his words refuse to cooperate. Suddenly, nothing in the English language is good enough to express the overwhelming amount of emotion Foggy inspires in him. And it's- okay, it's not literally killing Matt, but it's giving him one hell of a perpetual headache as he agonizes over what he wants to say to create the perfect moment to finally ask what he's wanted to for eons. Matt is good with his words. On paper, in court, wherever it counts. Which makes this all the worse.
He listens to what he’s written so far and groans, because it’s no better than what he had yesterday, or last week. It's rambling, insipid, uninspired. He'd be embarrassed to say it aloud again, and it's certainly nowhere good enough for Foggy. Every free chance he gets, he spends mulling over the perfect turn of phrase and combination of words, and yet, he’s still got nothing to show for it. Well, close to nothing. He’s already got the rings. They’re hidden deep in a drawer that only he has the key for; it seemed safer to keep them at the office than his apartment, where Foggy might happen upon them somehow. But a ring without a proposal is just a shiny trinket.
Karen slips into Matt’s office while he’s boiling in mediocrity and shame, explaining the files she’s about to hand over, and Matt mumbles some sort of affirmative. He doesn’t remember what’s on his screen until she’s only a foot or so away from his desk, which is when he shoots straight up in his chair to slam his laptop closed before she can see his awful speech.
“Um. Okay, I’m used to you having your secrets, but you used to be a little more suave about it.” She places her papers carefully on top of his laptop and Matt makes some sort of incomprehensible worm-like hand movement to dismiss her words.
“Chalk it up to character development,” he says balefully, and she gives him a short laugh at his expense before leaning up against the edge of his desk.
“What’s going on with you? You’ve been acting strange lately, and not in your usual way. Is there something I can help with?”
Matt’s first, second, and third instinct is to say no, but Karen hasn't failed him yet, and he desperately needs new direction if he's going to get anywhere.
“I've been trying to write a thank you note,” he finally says, and it's not really a lie. Besides, Karen will understand later why he's withholding the whole truth from her.
“A thank you note.” She says it flatly, trying to come to terms with it. “Look, I don't want to downplay whatever you're going through right now, but, really? That’s what’s been driving you to the brink of madness? A card?”
“It sounds really stupid, I know. But it's not an ordinary note. It’s just- it's extremely vital that this person understands just how much they mean to me. This note needs to express all of my gratitude, but right now it’s all just a bunch of cliches and sewage,” he tells her weakly.
“Ew.” But he can feel her posture softening and the unique curve of air around her face that appears whenever she’s thinking fondly of him, as daft as she finds him. “Maybe you’re getting too caught up in the language. This is a thank you note; not everything has to be operatic and Shakespearean all the time,” she tells him frankly, with a flourish of her wrist to demonstrate how melodramatic she finds him.
“C’mon, I’m not that bad.”
Karen sighs, and reaches out to pat his hand. “You love theatrics, Matt; don’t kid yourself. Just try being, I dunno, candid. Tell them straight everything they’ve done for you. You’re a good writer, but don’t let it get bloated. If they really mean so much to you, then the truth should be good enough, right?”
Matt mulls it over. She might have a point. If he explains everything to Foggy - just lays it out bare every reason he loves him - then maybe Foggy will say yes. But still…
“What if it doesn’t get the point across?” What if Foggy doesn’t understand that he isn’t just Matt’s best friend, but both his heart and his home?
“I am very confident that you, of all people, will get your point across,” she says, smiling. “Be sincere. Be honest. That’s all anyone ever really wants.”
Honest. That’s always been a bit of a shaky quality for Matt, but for Foggy, and for his friends, he’s been working on it. But Karen’s right. This is what he needs to do.
--
He writes. He writes and deletes and edits and rewrites, until finally, he’s wound up with something that’s far from perfect. But it’s of a tolerable length, and it hits all the important points, and, most crucially, it’s real. It’s honest. It’s everything Matt needs Foggy to know before he dares ask Foggy to spend the rest of their lives together.
He studies it for a week before telling Karen that he’s finished his thank you note, to which she gives him a hug, and an encouraging “good luck!”. He suspects she’s onto him.
But now that the proposal speech is written, he needs to find a time and place to actually propose.
This is slightly less stressful than the rest of the planning, and he decides to dwell on it a bit more as the year moves into December. He thinks he’ll wait until after the new year, but he hasn’t yet worked out any of the other logistics. In the evening, or the daytime? In the office, at the firm they created from scratch together? At Columbia, where they first met? There’s a lot to think about.
He’s thinking too hard, apparently, because Foggy points out his strange behavior one evening, after they return to his apartment from court. Matt is slowly massaging a knot out of Foggy’s back that formed after falling asleep flopped over his desk. Foggy, lying on his bed in one of Matt’s shirts (because, despite what he claims, he definitely has some sort of clothing-and-bedsheet centered kleptomania), seems harmless until he opens his mouth.
“So, what’s got you all antsy again these days?” he mumbles, his eyes creeping open to observe Matt.
“What do you mean?” Matt asks carefully, still kneading above Foggy’s shoulder blade.
“You’ve been spacing out more, and doing that thing where you case out every room you enter, but I know it's not Daredevil business. Karen says she doesn't know either, so, I thought I'd come straight to the source.” He rolls over onto his side away from Matt’s grasp in order to look at him.
Matt quickly shuffles through his list of probable excuses, trying to figure out how to extricate himself from this situation without hurting Foggy. It’s definitely not worth it to entangle himself in a bunch of lies, not when they’ve learned to trust each other again.
“Ah, you’re doing that ruffly thing with your eyebrows and mouth again. ‘How Do I Get Out Of This’ Face #2. If it’s a private matter, you can just tell me to back off. I get it,” Foggy says. There’s the twisting, dry humor he uses when he’s trying not to make it obvious how concerned he is, so Matt links their hands together to show he’s not trying to run away.
“It’s not. I...I can’t give you the specifics, but I can tell you it’s nothing dangerous. Or anything you need to worry about.” He doesn’t sound convincing in the least, and he scrambles to explain enough to give Foggy some peace of mind.
But Foggy just hums and tugs Matt down to lie beside him. “Okay. If you say it’s not dangerous, I’ll believe you.” His heartbeat remains steady and solid, and Matt sags with relief at the trust being readily handed to him. Still, he doesn’t want to leave this hanging between them, so he presses his lips to Foggy’s fingertips then continues on.
“Thank you. For trusting me. I don’t want to hide anything from you, but this-” He breaks off to think about how he wants to phrase this. “Look, don't freak out, but- I've been preoccupied with some...family business. It's nothing bad,” Matt hurries to say when he feels Foggy tensing. “Just something I needed to work out on my own.”
“Is it taken care of? Are you okay?” He reaches instinctively out to place his hand on Matt’s arm and his breath tightens in his throat.
Matt smiles back at him, reassuring. “I'm great. It's mostly settled, just a few loose ends to tie up. Nothing to worry about.”
There’s a silence as Foggy searches his face, but gradually, his pulse returns to resting rate, and he sinks back down into the bed. “Alright, good. That’s good. I mean, it is, isn’t it?” he says uncertainly.
“Yeah, it's good. Fantastic, actually. I'll tell you more about it another time.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Matt slides forward, pushing ripples through the sheets until he can loop an arm over Foggy’s waist. “Done with the zoning out too, I promise. You have my undivided attention from now on.”
“Yeah? Why don’t you prove it?” The very familiar uptick in pulse and glowing wave of heat spilling over tells Matt exactly what Foggy wants, and he flashes his razor-sharp smile to tell him message received.
“I think I will.” They meet halfway, and though Matt finds himself happily preoccupied, he can’t help but to mention, off-hand, “I do have one other secret, though.”
“Do you?” Foggy manages to ask between breaths.
“Just one, but I’m willing to share.”
Foggy tries to respond, but Matt decides that now would be a good time to divest them both of their shirts. And then he decides Foggy doesn’t feel as flushed as he should yet, which must be corrected immediately.
“Mmmfhgrhhrssrt,” is all Foggy manages to say, and Matt laughs into their kiss.
“Do you want to know the secret, or not?”
“Of course I do, but- look- you are well aware of how distracting you're being right now, Matt,” Foggy protests. He pushes half-heartedly at Matt, who parries him into another kiss. When the attack shows no sign of letting up, he resorts to catching Matt’s face in his hands and squishing his cheeks in. “I can’t believe I have to tell you this, but stop making out with me for like five seconds, dammit.” Matt tries to pout and Foggy just squishes harder.
“Alright, let’s pause.” Matt relents in a muffled jumble, retreating an inch or two away. “If you must know-”
Foggy nods, and Matt takes a deep breath.
“I don't want this to change your opinion of me; remember, I'm still the same guy I always was, okay?” Foggy nods again, more hesitantly this time, and Matt coughs so as not to give the game away. “Right then. Foggy, don't tell anyone, but...I’m kind of in love with you,” he whispers.
Foggy’s belated fake gasp is brimming with laughter. He rubs Matt’s arm, soothing and full of pity.
“Oh, wow, that's- I think that might be a deal breaker, buddy. Not sure how I can live with myself knowing that my best friend - of all people! - my best friend is- is in- I can't even say it! It's too much.” He collapses into Matt, trying to drown his laugh.
Matt’s sigh is defeated. “It's pretty bad. I don't know what to do. I've tried everything.”
“Everything?”
“Almost everything,” he amends.
“And you haven’t been cured yet?”
“Sadly, no. I’ve heard it might be incurable. I asked the doctor to give me the news, but he told me I’ve got a bad case of loving you.”
Foggy snorts, but the noise is muffled against Matt’s collarbone. “That’s one hell of a medical diagnosis. What do you think you're gonna do?”
Marry the pants off of you, that’s what. “I’ll come up with something. I always do.”
“Well, if you need any help, you can always come to me.”
“Help with what, falling out of love with you?” Matt scoffs. “If anything, you’ll make it worse. Stay out of this, Foggy.”
Foggy shushes him. “No way! We’re partners, Matt. You can count on me, buddy. Whatever it takes, I’ll do it. You want me to become unlovable? I’m on it.”
Foggy’s idea of being unlovable mostly consists of trying to literally kick Matt out of his bed with barely enough force to push a wiffle ball. Matt is moved barely an inch before he intervenes by sitting up and pinning Foggy’s legs down with his own.
“Impossible. Forget it, I’m doomed. I’ve been putting up with this ‘in love with my best friend’ thing for years; I can deal for a few more. Or until I die. It’s fine.” I will love you and honor you all the days of my life.
“Oh, Matty. For what it’s worth, I really am sorry,” Foggy tells him kindly. “And if it helps, I’m a little bit head over heels for you too. Just a tiny, tiny bit.”
“A pinch?” Matt makes the matching gesture, trying to keep his face serious. He doesn’t think it’s working.
“A smidgen.”
“It does alleviate my ceaseless torment. Slightly.”
“You know what else might help? Kissing me again. I mean, it wasn’t working out so great for you before, but who knows, right?” Foggy wriggles under Matt’s weight until he’s freed himself enough to lie in what he calls his “seductive mermaid” pose.
Matt gives up on his serious face and laughs. “Might as well give it another go.”
Later, with Foggy asleep on his arm, Matt lets himself overthink again, for just a moment. It’s time to settle all this proposal business.
Matt doesn’t have many perfect memories, so he’s going to make one. In the new year, on a perfect day, he’s finally going to ask Foggy to marry him. And if there is no perfect day, he’ll create one. No more waiting. It’s finally time.
Chapter 6
Notes:
You didn't think I'd let you go without subjecting you to the wedding, did you?
I'm so sorry it took me three years to finish this, but infinite thanks to all readers; you are the best and I love all of you! My quick disclaimer: I've never attended a non-Chinese wedding, let alone a Catholic one, so I'm sorry for any inaccuracies! Thank you again to everyone who came along on this journey with me, and thank you for your support! I'm going to miss writing these two, but I'm really happy to be able to wrap up this story, and I hope you enjoy the end!! Thanks a million for reading! ♥
Chapter Text
+1.
There are two things Matt knows right now.
One, Foggy is happy. Every part of him sings with it, lively and glowing, which in turns means that Matt is happy, even though he's otherwise a little bit overwhelmed by the immediacy of what's about to happen.
Two, that he’s not sure he actually knows anything at all. Is this even real life? It must be, he tells himself again. The details here are too complex, too unexpected to be a dream. The way Claire’s dress brushes against her knees in a soft twirl of fabric, the hint of orange blossom at Karen’s wrists and threaded through her hair and the steady clip of Brett Mahoney’s heart thumping along a few feet away. The guests gathered neatly in rows split evenly between both sides of the church because there are a few more Nelson guests than there are Murdock guests, and as every single Nelson guest has assured him, he’s one of theirs now. Father Lantom is an anchoring point at Matt’s side, and each curve of the church walls is familiar and steadying.
He thought that after rehearsing his words in a thousand and a half dreams he wouldn't trip up once finally speaking them into existence. And in most senses, he doesn't. His vows, shaped into a speech as close to perfect as they ever will be (though in the end they barely capture even the surface of what Foggy means to him, for this moment in time, it’s enough), sound fine to the undiscerning listener, but it almost feels too easy to be allowed to say them here, in front of everyone who matters. As if he hasn't earned it yet.
In contrast, he holds tight to every word Foggy says to him, engraving them into his consciousness so deeply that even if this were to be just an alien-induced fever dream or unnecessary simulation hand-tailored to his desires he would still remember after the fallout. But there’s a brief moment when Foggy’s tone goes wry as he tells Matt, “And as much as you love to complicate my life, there’s nothing easier than when we’re together,” and Matt becomes almost completely certain this is reality, because nothing else could fully capture the depth of how much Foggy’s voice alone is conveying to him right then. It’s years of affection written in a song that Matt knows better than any psalm or scripture.
Regardless, they’re standing here now, so he squares his shoulders and exhales slowly before continuing his part, a smile slipping out unbidden because he never could hide how Foggy makes him feel. It feels suddenly all too quiet, nothing but the sound of his own thoughts and Foggy’s pulse filtering through to him. But, as always, it’s enough to carry him forward.
“I, Matthew, take you, Foggy, to be my lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part. I will love and honor you all the days of my life."
Foggy’s breath does a little jump, the way it does when he’s about to mutter an involuntary curse and Matt has to concentrate extra hard to keep his own face neutrally happy and not to laugh at his about-to-be-husband. He’s sure Foggy’s slight wheeze is from a combination of nerves and the hanging uncertainty that Matt wasn’t going to zigzag on him at the last minute and call him Franklin after all. Foggy manages to contain himself, and when he speaks, it’s not with his courtroom confidence – it’s the quiet faith that he always carries whenever he makes a promise.
“I, Foggy, take you, Matthew, to be my lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part. I will love and honor you all the days of my life."
Matt doesn’t have the time to linger forever in this moment like he wants to; Father Lantom is blessing the rings, and then Brett is folding Matt’s fingers over the gold band he’s long since memorized the feeling of. This time, he can’t suppress the first slight tremor in his hand as he slips it onto Foggy’s ring finger, even though it’s so much warmer here than it was that winter evening when he botched his proposal. He barely registers saying his ring vows before Foggy is doing the same for him, the now familiar weight of his ring settling back where it belongs on his left hand.
Finally.
When they kiss this time, it isn’t fireworks and fanfare, but it’s more than the easy, effortless type of everyday affection they share. It’s almost the complete opposite of the other most important kiss of Matt’s life, standing in his living room using all the courage he could muster after nearly a decade to brush his lips carefully against Foggy’s. This isn’t a question; this is a promise. A contract signed and sealed. This is the start of the rest of their lives.
Their guests are still clapping when they pull away, giving them a brief moment to themselves before Father Lantom’s final blessings.
“So, married, huh?” Foggy whispers, their foreheads still resting against each other.
“Looks like it, buddy. I mean, I assume. This is my church, right?”
“God, I hope so, because the only other place I can think of where we regularly see this many people is in court, and we’d be putting on one hell of a show.”
“If Karen’s to be believed, we already flirt too much while on the job; let’s spare her this indignity.”
The last prayer concludes and Matt can hear Father Lantom’s smile as he announces to the congregation, “Ladies and gentlemen, it is my honor to present to you the newly married couple, Matthew Murdock and Foggy Nelson. Congratulations!”
Matt releases a breath he wasn’t even aware of holding and lets Foggy links their arms, taking their first step forward together as the recessional music begins.
They made it. They’re finally more than just a little bit married.
--
“Are you thinking of running away?”
“I’m not one for running, exactly.”
Foggy waves his arm around, trying to gather his euphemisms like a shepherd reining in his flock. “Regrouping, then. Making a tactical retreat.”
Matt pauses with his hand on the door handle to think about it. “Currently there’s no bigger obstacle to our success than you yourself, Foggy.” Inside, the noise drops to a concentrated murmur as Karen hushes everyone.
“Oh, so now the blame falls on me? I am, in every and all situations, completely faultless, sir.”
“You’re the only one who’s got me tripping over myself.”
Foggy sighs, taking Matt’s free hand and squeezing once. “That’s sweet, but let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”
When they step into the room, the crowd works itself back up to a frenzy, Karen’s attempts to wrangle them falling away unsuccessfully. The Nelsons cannot be contained. Matt bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from laughing at the slight exasperation he knows must be settling on Foggy’s face right now as the music begins.
Sway, step, sway, twirl. Foggy leads for optimal results, but Matt follows as precisely as he can, to great effect, he thinks. For the first half of the dance he focuses on not fucking it up, but by the end he’s able to enjoy the moment, even if all he’ll remember is the beat of the song and the warmth of Foggy’s hands.
When their dance ends they’re free to shuffle back to their seats, still holding hands because it’s their wedding day and they’re allowed to be as obnoxiously mushy as they’d like, “moon eyes” included, as Brett would call them. The string music continues, laying a gentle backdrop for the conversation that swells back up again.
As dinner service begins, Foggy turns to Matt, half-breathless, telling him, “Wow, that was- that was genuinely decent. I'm almost speechless. Have you been training?”
“You know I have. I'm pretty sure you were present for those practice sessions. I'm very sure you were the one heckling me relentlessly through all of them.”
“Well, yeah, but it seems like your skills jumped like at least four levels since two nights ago.”
“I tried really hard,” Matt confides in him, and Foggy’s laugh, quiet enough for only Matt to hear, makes his breath hitch in his throat.
“I can tell. You were great.”
“By the way, why didn't we play our song for our first dance?”
“Because no one wants to watch two lawyers try to sway through Drops of Jupiter, Matt.”
“Right. And why is Drops of Jupiter our song again?”
“Don't even start with me; you know exactly why.”
Matt does indeed, so he just smiles and sneakily takes hold of Foggy’s hand underneath the tablecloth as Karen stands to give her maid of honor speech. She had worn a groove into the sparse carpet of their office while trying to write it; Matt had only teased her a little for dithering so much over it before she poked him in the ribs for the hypocrisy. But she’s doing a magnificent job now, her speech both heartfelt and sincere, with the right number of humorous beats to keep it from getting bogged down. He can feel her smile shaping her words, even when a slight hiccup betrays the tears she manages to hold back.
When she comes over to hug them, Matt spins her once, breathing in her scent: gentle jasmine and traces of ink and lemongrass and fading lavender perfume. He loves her easily, the intrepid third to their office trio, who fell into their lives like she was always intended to be there. Whose patience and support held constant even when they were too stupid to see what was right in front of them all this time.
“Thank you,” Matt says, and it’s for tonight, for every case and moment of bravery, for everything.
“Oh, Matt, it was nothing. I’m just so happy for you two.” Karen kisses his cheek before she turns to Foggy, who tugs her into a thorough hug. They whisper something to each other that Matt pretends he can’t hear; from the clink of silverware, it seems like Brett is stepping up to bat, so he finds himself distracted anyway.
Brett’s speech is honest and hilarious, but all in good fun. Even if Matt hadn’t already known, it’s evident from Brett’s voice that all their petty bickering aside, he’s immovably fond of Foggy. Matt finds himself hung up on the childhood stories while Foggy groans good-naturedly with every jibe.
Throughout it all, except while applauding, Foggy keeps Matt’s fingers linked with his. It’s a point of comfort that Matt doesn’t mind indulging in because the reception is a lot.
A lot of everything, really: people and food and speeches and music, none of it bad, but they layer into waves awfully high for Matt’s already compromised emotional dam to withstand as steadily as usual.
It’s fine; Matt’s not a stranger to functions like this. But to be at the center of attention for something that doesn’t involve his words or his fists – it feels sideways, like he should be diverting all these people elsewhere, toward Foggy instead, even though Matt is just as much a part of this wedding as his husband (!!!) is. So he smiles and accepts the hugs and overflowing words of congratulations from the many warm-hearted Nelsons and previous clients that surround him, and keeps himself tethered to the present by drumming the beat of Foggy’s slightly elevated pulse against the tabletop whenever they’re apart.
Claire comes to monopolize him when Foggy is being kept occupied by a branch of family that came in from Canada, using her most sympathetic smile and some vague excuse to link her arm with his and take a lap around the community center hall. It’s the same place he’d asked Foggy to dance with him all those many months ago, when he’d had an inkling that just maybe those feelings he’d been adrift in since law school weren’t so hopeless. It looks even better than at the party, Foggy had said in between toasts, describing the lights and the dinnerware, the candles and chairs. The linens Matt can feel for himself, and the floral centerpieces are a collection of only lightly scented flowers whose petals are butter soft under his fingertips.
“Would it be smarmy to say I told you so?” Claire asks after they finish chatting with Foggy’s sister, who was balancing two glasses of ginger ale in one hand, and a toddler on her hip. Claire’s arm is bare and warm against his, a frill of silk at her shoulder ruffling against his suit when they weave in between guests heading toward the dance floor.
“The fact that I’m not sure what exactly you’re referring to speaks for itself,” Matt says sheepishly. Subscribing to the Claire Temple school of living would surely have made his life easier, but Matt isn’t good at doing what’s easy.
“I’d say so,” she laughs, resting her head briefly against his shoulder when they stop at the edge of the bar, waiting to catch a moment to break past the short line. “Foggy said yes. Like we knew he would.”
“He did,” and even now it still feels like a gift he can’t ever be grateful enough for, even when everything about it comes as naturally as breathing.
“And you’re happy, like you should be. Good. You deserve this, Matt. Congratulations.”
She walks him back to his seat, after they take a moment to stop by the small memorial table where a framed photo of Matt’s father rests beside those of Foggy’s deceased grandparents and aunt. Of all the moments in his life that Matt has wished Jack could witness, this ranks the highest. He runs his thumb over the ridges of the picture frame, hoping his father knows that he’s happy, he’s loved, and that he’s doing what he was always meant to do.
Foggy had come with him to Jack’s grave a few months prior to pay his respects, and had asked for a few minutes alone so he could “have a long overdue conversation with my future father-in-law, Matt. You know, ask for his blessing, that kind of stuff.” Matt had kissed him on the cheek and left him to it, taking a walk to give Foggy some privacy. He’d come back half an hour later to find Foggy telling the story of the time they got locked out of their dorm and went jogging in the rain instead of doing their homework that night.
“I, uh- we decided to keep our own names, but I think Matty secretly thinks of me as a Murdock now, and I can’t say that I mind. I guess what I’m trying to say is you don’t have to fret about him being alone anymore. Not that we weren’t family long before the overdue relationship upgrade, but this time I’m putting it down in writing.
“I know you probably worry about Matt still – god knows I do, especially when he gets that look on his face, you know the one – but I promise I’m watching out for him, enough for the both of us. I’ve got him, and I’m not going anywhere. Cross my heart.” Foggy had laid the flowers he’d been clutching across the grass before the headstone, before returning to Matt’s side.
Right after Foggy makes his way back to their table, they’re corralled toward the wedding cake for the cake cutting. Foggy has described it to Matt before: it’s a three-story experience, tastefully decorated if his husband is to be believed, each layer a different flavor because Foggy has been hard-pressed to decide and Matt hadn’t wanted him to regret anything about their wedding day. It helps that the cake is mostly pro bono, due to the kindness of a former client who had been happy to volunteer their services. One layer is red velvet, which Matt finds hilarious, and Foggy finds obnoxiously cheeky but too delicious to veto. The whole thing has a looming, sugar-scented presence now, yelling in notes of lemon, vanilla, and cocoa powder, and Matt thinks he’s not going to be able to enjoy any part of it until they’re back in the quiet of their apartment.
“Careful now,” Matt says as he wraps his hand around Foggy’s so they’re holding the handle together. It reminds him of the first time Foggy had decided to try a romantic cooking lesson. It had ended well for them, but poorly for the state of the kitchen.
“Shouldn’t I be the one saying that?”
“You know I’m very experienced with knives.”
“Yeah, in too many ways, buddy.”
The ceremony proceeds without any hiccups, and no cake is smashed into anyone’s face, though Foggy does dot a dollop of frosting on Matt’s cheek at the behest of the crowd before kissing it away, which has set the photographer ablaze, if the frenzied clicks of the shutter signify anything.
“Grand Marnier buttercream,” says Foggy, thoroughly satisfied. “The superior choice.”
“Don’t I know it.” Out of all of Foggy’s extemporaneous rants about highly polarizing subjects like unscented detergents and carpet cleaning companies, Matt thinks the frosting one might be his favorite.
Cake is distributed, in part personally by Foggy, and meanwhile Matt is whisked into the arms of Foggy’s parents, who shower him with affection as always. “Welcome to the family,” Edward says, gripping Matt’s shoulder warmly.
“Legally, at least,” Anna says after giving him a heartfelt hug. “We’ve been waiting for you ever since Foggy brought you over that first semester.”
“That long?” Matt asks, a frisson of surprise still hitting him despite knowing now they’d both been ridiculously stuck on each other since school. He makes a mental note to wheedle the details out of Foggy later.
“That long,” she confirms. “We’re so happy to finally make it official, sweetheart. You’ll still be coming to visit for the holidays, won’t you?”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he promises, leaving a peck on her cheek. He’s always loved them for the way they so quickly and earnestly adopted him, and this is just another reminder. Edward hugs him again before he and Anna return to their table, hand in hand.
He can tell Foggy is still giving out cake and stopping to talk to everyone on his path from the cloud of vanilla and cream looping around the room, so he takes the time to just absorb every detail that he can.
Claire is having an animated conversation with one of Foggy’s cousins, a paramedic who lives in New Jersey, and Karen is lively on the dance floor with her boyfriend and a circle of dancing relatives and former clients who have abandoned their uncomfortable shoes to cut loose. Brett is catching up with Foggy’s sister, and Matt can sense Father Lantom standing on the sidelines speaking with Bess and some of Foggy’s elderly aunts. It all feels...good, for lack of a better word. These are people he loves, people he respects and cares for, and they’re here for the sole purpose of celebrating him and Foggy.
When he’d first fantasized about this faraway dream, he had never dared wish for this much. It had been sketched in broad, vague, charcoal strokes, only the most important parts blotted with color: Foggy would be there, obviously, and probably his parents, and “there” would likely be a courthouse. Not that Matt wouldn’t prefer a full church ceremony, but it never seemed like there would be time or money or reason to hold one. They’d eat cake afterwards, maybe take a day off or two for themselves, and then return to work at whatever amazing law firm they were going to end up at after they graduated. A few years later, it was courthouse, cake, Landman and Zack. Courthouse, Karen, cake, the beautiful rundown offices of Nelson and Murdock.
Here they are now, and it’s so much more than he could have ever hoped to deserve. He can only endeavor now to prove their faith in him right by being the best that he can be for Foggy.
The staccato click of heels against the floor, accompanied with the powdery, drifting scent of roses announces someone Matt is still wary about encountering, after all these years. Maybe it’s because of a latent, unfounded envy of how much more time he and Foggy could have had like this, if he’d been a bit braver back at Columbia. Time that Foggy had spent with Marci instead. But then he reminds himself that the road they took to get to this point may have been difficult, and it may not all have been necessary, but it’s what worked in the end, and he would never risk losing that. So he smiles at Marci as she approaches, appreciative of the fact that she cares enough about Foggy to have showed up tonight.
“Matthew,” she greets, cordial as a summer’s day, but Matt knows she’s still sharp as steel under the pleasantries.
“Marci,” he says, sounding surprisingly more genial than he expected. It might be actually impossible for anything to ruin his mood today.
But something must still shine through in his expression, because she laughs, genuine and bright. “Oh, don’t look so sour, Murdock. I’m happy for you, seriously. Happier for Foggy, of course, but you know how it goes.” Matt does; besides being soul-crushingly good at her job, the other thing he’d always liked about Marci was that she had grasped immediately how wonderful Foggy is. “I’m glad you worked it out, in the end. Take care of him, okay? We both know he’s the best thing to ever walk into your life.”
“Of course.” Matt could never forget again.
“Well, that’s enough congratulations for you,” she says smartly, resting her fingertips just briefly on his arm as she makes to move past him. “Time to find myself the tallest glass of champagne and the hottest of Foggy’s cousins to keep me entertained for the night. Enjoy your honeymoon, Matt.” And like that she sashays away, leaving Matt weirdly endeared to her brisk form of good will.
He catches Foggy sneaking up on him before he can leave this corner, his favorite heartbeat announcing his husband long before he can pounce on Matt. Matt allows it anyway, letting Foggy sweep him into an embrace that sends them stumbling almost into the wall, even though neither of them are tipsy on much of anything more than excitement.
“Hey, you,” Foggy says after they right themselves. The song currently playing isn’t very familiar, but the beat is easy enough to find. They begin their usual mummified swaying, a far step down from the dance they managed earlier. But Matt never minds the chance to hold Foggy close.
“Hey in return, Mr. Nelson. What brings you my way?”
“Oh, nothing. Just wanted to introduce you to my husband, Mr. Murdock. Have you met him yet? Terribly sweet, terribly handsome. Terribly brilliant and hardworking and adorable. A whole lot of terribles.” Matt laughs against his cheek, and spins them carelessly, knowing there’s no one to get in their way out in this corner.
“We’re acquainted. So you two finally tied the knot. Congratulations are in order.”
“Yes, thanks, we’re extremely happy. How’s things with you?”
“Oh, the usual. Convinced the love of my life to settle down with me. I think it might be my single greatest feat as a lawyer.”
“Yeah? Good for you! I know you’ve been pining after him for a long time, so it’s nice to see you get your happy ending.”
Matt knows he looks put-out right now, but he doesn’t care. “Pining- why is that the word everyone always uses? And only on me? I was handling it. It was a long-term, carefully thought through strategy.”
Foggy bursts into laughter, his heart doing the beautiful skip of joy usually derived from the amusement that Matt’s struggles bring to him. “You tried and failed to seduce him over lasagna. And Connect Four. Yours was not a good strategy, my friend.” He presses a kiss to the corner of Matt’s mouth when he starts frowning, and spins them again. “Anyway, I think you get slapped with the pining label because you’re so good at looking soulfully tortured and romantically broody. I, on the other hand, make being hopelessly in love seem wistful and charming. Like a French movie with accordion music in the background.”
“It’s still pining,” Matt insists. “No matter how cute or European you look doing it.”
Foggy’s hair is soft against Matt’s cheek as he rests his chin on Matt’s shoulder. “Alright, alright. We were both pining and I’ll be sure to let everyone know the next time they ask. Happy?”
“Yep. Finally, justice has been served. Nelson and Murdock, always on the case.”
The song transitions into something slower, sweeter, and they relax their speed to match. “How are you doing?” Foggy asks, quieter now. The fabric of his tux is smooth and spotless under Matt’s hands, where they’re resting on Foggy’s hips. Matt takes a moment to take stock of himself before answering, his fingers toting with the hem of Foggy’s jacket.
“I’m fantastic,” he says, and it’s never been truer.
“But a little bit tired,” Foggy guesses, because he can read Matt’s visual cues as well as Matt can read everything else about him. He traces his thumb in a curve around Matt’s right eye, stopping when he reaches his cheek. “It’s been a long day. Especially with all those readings and prayers, whew. I’m remembering now why I always fell asleep during mass.”
“You might actually be the worst Catholic I know,” Matt says fondly.
“Well, sucks to be you, because you’re stuck with me now, pal. I’ve got a shiny trinket and a fancy piece of paper to prove it.”
“I know, it’s delightful.” He reaches up to tangle their hands together so that he can revel in the feeling of Foggy’s wedding ring against his skin. Matt likes this shiny trinket in particular because of what it immediately announces to anyone who sees it, but as far as he’s concerned, he and Foggy were stuck together the moment Foggy handed him a napkin with both their names on it. Or maybe it was a plastic triceratops. Or a lime popsicle.
“So, Matthew. I have a proposition for you.”
“Well, Franklin, if it’s anything like your last suggestion, I’m going to have to decline. I can only trawl through a ball pit once in my life.”
“Ye of little faith,” Foggy chides. “I told you I would handle the ball pit next time. You can go chat up the ticket counter people for information or lurk around the skee-ball lanes.”
“I’ll win you that lava lamp you wanted. It’ll be a fun addition to your office. Now let’s hear this proposal of yours.”
“I know this is going to sound out of character for me, but...what do you say to sneaking out early? And I know what you’re going to say,” he says before Matt can interrupt, “because yes, I do indulge in any chance to bust a move, and double yes, I am a radiant social butterfly, but tonight- I think I might be ready to take you home. Do you mind?”
“Not in the slightest. Anything you want,” Matt assures him, because all this is wonderful, but few things hold a candle to returning home to Foggy. He pauses to assess the celebration, which is still in full swing. “Should we tell someone we've left? I don't want them to end the festivities early.”
“Nah, Karen or somebody will figure it out. Especially since I warned her we might pull something like this. Besides, the ever effective Nelson party apparatus will keep things going long after they should, and Candace and Brett said they wouldn’t mind helping us clean things up. We’ll buy them gift baskets later.”
“You present a very convincing case. Are you sure you don't want to talk to anyone else before we go?”
“We've already made the rounds and taken a gazillion pictures. I think we’re good. Let's roll.” Foggy tugs him forward into a kiss, their last before they slip out a side door, leaving their own wedding reception like teenagers sneaking out of prom, holding hands and snickering the whole way.
--
Of course, once they actually make their way out onto the streets, still dressed to impress, they’re both too wired to go home right away. They head in the direction of their apartment, feeling light-hearted and giddy, leaning into each other as they meander down the street like they’re young, drunk law students again.
“You used to bring me to the weirdest places,” Matt reminisces as they start winding up their block, Foggy half-melting into his side. He never could turn down any of Foggy’s “adventures,” then or now. “Remember that abandoned subway station from the time we got lost geocaching? And that pizza place that, retrospectively, I think may have been a mob front?”
“We probably should’ve realized after it took an hour to get our pie. And when they wouldn’t stop glaring at us the whole time.”
“I think the strangest part of all was that the pizza wasn’t half bad.” When they arrive at their building, Matt directs them toward the staircase instead of the elevator. “My turn to take you somewhere.”
“Oh? Is it a secret? Do I have to close my eyes?”
“I wouldn’t; at least one of us should be looking where we’re going,” Matt says with a grin. “Besides, it’s nowhere near as exciting as any of the condemned warehouses you’ve dragged us to.”
“Hey, I’m not usually the reason we end up in creepy warehouses, Matt.”
He gives Matt a slight jab in the side, but is otherwise docile as they advance up and up to the very top landing of the stairs. Matt bypasses the door with a firm hand at the correct angle right against the knob, jiggling the faulty lock out of alignment so that the door pops right open. He holds his hand out and leads Foggy outside to their rooftop to see what he presumes is a lovely view of the city.
“We’re gonna top the night off with some casual trespassing, are we? It’s kind of romantic, in your odd, Matt way. Whoa,” Foggy says, when they draw to a stop. “You laid out a picnic blanket and everything! Right here, where we can see the water, and is that thing over there our office? It is! Aw, this is cute. You’re cute, Matt.”
“I’m decent,” Matt allows. “No actual picnicking tonight, but maybe tomorrow.”
“You’re not decent, you’re lovely. Lazy morning, sleeping in, taking a late picnic lunch. Sounds perfect.”
They take a seat beside one another, the late summer air threading through Foggy’s hair so that it flutters up against Matt’s cheek, a tender brush of sunshine even as they’re enveloped in the stretch of New York’s night sky. It’s a sense memory that summons back countless moments, none so clear right now as the night in the library when Foggy first dozed off on Matt’s arm and Matt first had to wrestle with the thought that he’d like for it to happen again.
Matt can’t pinpoint exactly when he fell in love with Foggy. He doesn’t think there was one definitive instance that pushed him over the edge – no lightning strike to the heart or hurricane to sweep him off his feet. Rather, he thinks that it was just the inevitable result of the way their lives had come to be entwined, because how could anyone spend as much time with Foggy as Matt had without him stealing at least half their heart away?
Heliotropic, Karen had called Matt once, when she was a little sleepy and a lot vexed by the state of Matt’s relationship progress. You can’t stop looking at the sun, reaching for it – shut up, Matt, I know you can’t literally see – and if you maybe relied on your words instead of your senses for once, you’d realize that the sun is always shining on you. Neither of you can help it. Then she’d babbled something about photosynthesis and the food chain and Matt had bundled her into a cab to be sent home.
He’d thought on those words for a while, because what’s the significance of a single flower to the sun? How could Matt’s love, as insurmountably deep as it was, be enough for someone as genuinely good as Foggy? Some days he still isn’t sure that it is, and yet, they found their way here anyway. Foggy wakes up to Matt every day, both heart and voice professing again and again that he loves Matt back. They’re in love and they’re happy. Miracles upon miracles.
“We're married, you and I,” Matt says slowly, disbelieving. He knows he literally just lived through this, but he's still not sure that this isn't simply a very nice dream ten years in the making.
Foggy squeezes his hand: instant reassurance in one small motion. “We most certainly are,” he says, only a touch amused at Matt’s skepticism. Mostly he sounds patient and warm, the way he used to back at Columbia whenever he had to wake Matt up after finding him asleep in awkward shapes on his desk. They had very quickly become acquainted with each other’s sleeping habits. “Got a real live priest and a big honking cake and everything. Licenses too. It was extremely legitimate, if that's what you're worried about. I checked for any weird legal loopholes ahead of time.”
“Oh, thanks. I should have thought of that.”
“I mean, it'd be kind of crazy to expect some arcane complication to come along and ruin the legality of our marriage, but I know you and I know the trouble you get up to. Better safe than sorry.”
“I would never intentionally jeopardize the sanctity of our marriage,” Matt says firmly, and Foggy laughs fondly at him.
“Not on purpose, I know, but there's all sorts of types in the city these days; I didn't want to get caught off-guard by some super powered divorce lawyer out terrorizing the streets.”
Fair point. Some days it feels like New York’s criminal element is becoming stranger and stranger by the minute. Folks in frog costumes and bullfighting outfits, wayward acrobats and people who build ridiculously unwieldy metal suits. Trust Foggy to have taken this into account. “This is why I love you, you know.”
“Because I plan ahead? Or ‘cause my good plans nicely complement your bad ones?”
Matt pretends to scoff. “My plans aren't bad, they're...non-traditional.”
“Oh, I know all about non-traditional, Matt. I think I’ve got non-traditional stitched in red across my one good suit jacket at this point. But maybe that’s why I love you back. You think outside the box and you roll with things even when they seem to be more trouble than they’re worth, because it’s the right thing to do. You make me want to be a better person,” he says, leaning up against Matt, who has to swallow back twelve different emotions that he wants to unload all at once like a broken gumball machine.
His voice is gruff when he speaks. “It’s not possible. You’re already the best. Besides your weakness for corn chips. But I know you’re the only reason I’m anywhere as good as I am. You’re my anchor, you know that, right? I mean that in a nice way.”
“Yeah, I know. Which makes you my boat, and I’m not sure if this is a cute metaphor or not, but I’ve decided to say it is. Anchor and boat. How nautical. God, it’s gross how sappy we are.” Foggy lets out a contented sigh. “How can people stand us? And we were like this before getting married; I can’t imagine how difficult it’s going to be for them now.”
“Ghastly, I’m sure. Karen will revolt two weeks in.”
“She has no one to blame but herself.” Foggy shifts in such a way that Matt knows his legs are going numb. Time to go home.
“Alright, time to head inside,” Matt declares. “Our marriage bed awaits.” He moves into a crouch, prepared to lift Foggy off the ground in a bridal carry, but his husband bats his hands away.
“Wait, no no no, I’m not letting you carry me inside. I’ll bonk my head right on the doorway.”
“No bonking,” Matt promises. “My spatial awareness is top-notch.”
“Yeah, and you can show all that off when we’re naked later. Give me your arm, you dork.” Foggy loops their arms together and leads them back inside. “Watch the step, now.” He stops to yank the door back closed before directing them back down the single flight of stairs to their apartment.
It’s as Foggy is standing around in his dress shirt and boxers, very carefully hanging up their suits “because a wrinkle in these cost a hundred dollars a pop, buster; you can wait another minute before we get down to business,” that Matt feels it again, that uncontrollable need to ask the same question that’s been bouncing around his mind for forever. He can’t help it; he loves that Foggy knows how to keep his priorities straight.
“What’s that face?” Foggy asks as he strips off his tie, which Matt suspects has some kind of tiny animal embroidered all over it, because not even their wedding day would stop him. He comes up to frame Matt’s face with his hands. “You look like you’re trying to swallow marbles.”
“No, I’m just- just thinking. About us. ‘Marry me.’ Do you know how many times I’ve had to stop myself from blurting that out to you over the years? And now I don’t have to. I don’t have to say it anymore, because you’re mine and I’m yours.” He brackets Foggy’s hands tenderly with his own.
“Sap. You still could, if you want to. I have the feeling you haven’t gotten it out of your system yet,” Foggy says kindly, because he’s a darling who indulges Matt’s many oddities.
“Alright, then. Let’s get married, Foggy.” And there is still some measure of gratification he gets from saying it, but nowhere near as much from what Foggy says in response.
“Already have done, Matty. Here, gimme your hand,” and he folds Matt’s hand into a fist before bumping it with his own. “Tada! Official in the eyes of the law.”
“You remembered,” Matt murmurs, and Foggy nods as he walks them backwards toward the bed.
“ ‘Course I did. Third most important contract of my life, how could I forget? Now, c’mon, I wanna see my husband’s spatial awareness in action.”
Husband. Matt tries and fails to hold back a full-body shudder, which is the slightest bit embarrassing, but he thinks he should be allowed this. He’s been waiting a damn long time to hear that word. “Prepare to be amazed.”
Foggy tugs him forward and down and they leave words behind for the moment. There will be time enough for words later.
After all, they have the rest of their future together. From this moment forward, all the days of their lives.
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