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Matt's standing in the centre of the ring and hitting a punching bag over and over and over again. The lights blare down on his forehead and he pulls a hand across it for one second, two seconds, and then he's back again, one knock, one blow, one falter. Matt's sweat runs in rivulets.
The bag thunks to the ground and Foggy just stands still, watching. He's quiet. He can't hear himself over the sound of his own breath. The floodlights make Matt's hair gleam. He's not wearing his glasses - they've been thrown off to the side somewhere. Matt's wearing sweatpants and a vest. He's heaving gulps of air.
Foggy's never thought that Matt could be capable of killing anyone before. But now, standing here, watching him, he knows. Foggy knows. Foggy knows for a certainty that this is not the Matt he knows - the Matt who stays up studying until two am and catches a cold the next day, the Matt who takes Foggy's arm when they're walking, the Matt who smiles and gets the jokes and laughs in all the right places.
This isn't Foggy's Matt. This is someone else - someone else entirely. Someone who can make people bleed. And that's frightening. This man is faceless. He doesn't have a name, or a credit card or a flat or a cane, or anybody to go home to. Outside, there's a banging that makes Foggy's hair stand up on end.
Matt's head turns, and just for a moment, Foggy feels as though he's underneath the microscope.
"Foggy?" Matt says, even though he knows, must know, who it is.
"You're the Devil," Foggy tells him - and really, truly, it sinks in. Matt crosses the space slowly, as though Foggy might still back up and run out. He could do that. He could still get out. He's not a criminal. He could go to the police right now - run to Brett, share rooms with Marci, ignore Karen's pleading stares.
"I am." Matt's lips are a long line. Foggy wants to trace them - he wants to kiss Matt, all over his face, as gently as he's capable of. Wants Matt to know what that feels like. Wants Matt to be held, and to hold. "I'm sorry."
Foggy may not be in love with the Daredevil, but he loves Matt. He loves him like he's never loved anybody else. He loves the man with his finger tracing over Braille, and he loves the smell of the deodorants they share, and he loves Matt's hand on the crook of his elbow, fingers curling in tight.
"Fine," Foggy says. He takes a step closer. Matt's throat bobs. His left hand twitches out, as though it could fill the space between them. Foggy takes hold of it. He draws their palms together. Matt's head dips down. They're sharing breaths - Foggy peering upwards, Matt panting raggedly.
"We'll fix this," Matt says. "I promise you, Foggy. I'll fix this. We can go back to what we were." And he looks wild and desperate and earnest, and his hold on Foggy tightens. Matt's feet are reflected in the polished floor.
"No," Foggy murmurs. He shakes his head. "We can't, not really. You know that already." And, despite it all, Foggy still won't let go. Not of this.
Matt swallows, and says Foggy's name. Foggy kisses him. Matt's touch is firm, at first, and then loosens, more and more and more, until they're just Matt and Foggy again, and Matt's rocking from side to side, and Foggy's shushing him. The Daredevil creeps to the corner of the room. Foggy can't see him anymore.
"It's going to be okay, though," Foggy assures him, even as the words shake - because he keeps going. That's who he is, now. "You're okay."
"I'm okay," Matt echoes, cheeks flushed, and the trust in it is blinding. So Foggy keeps his contact.
"I'm not always going to be around, you know. You're going to have to learn how to stop on your own. I could get sick, or - or move away, or - " Foggy stops here, because Matt's smile has twisted - and, quite frankly, because he can't ever imagine himself leaving Hell's Kitchen. He used to be able to, he's sure.
"You won't," Matt says. "I won't, I'll learn, I - I - you have to stay, Foggy. I'm sorry, but you have to stay with me. I don't know what I'd do without you."
"Kill more people?" Foggy jokes, but it falls flat almost instantly. He sighs. Matt's grip tightens. He has bandages around his knuckles, stained with blood. "You shouldn't really be boxing right now. I mean, if anybody came in here and saw - "
"They wouldn't," Matt says, with a certain defiant confidence - it must come from experience. "And if they did, what would they find?"
The Devil, Foggy whispers, in the back of his mind.
"Somebody who's too sweaty." Foggy waves a hand at him. "Go get changed. And have a shower. I mean it."
Matt runs a hand along the back of his neck, and pulls an apologetic grimace. "I'll find my clothes," he says, and stumbles out, one of his legs dragging behind him.
"And then we're taking you to a doctor!" Foggy hollers. Matt keeps walking, but waves.
.
Back at Matt's place, Foggy gets out the medical kit, retrieving it from the space between the wall and the sink. The box is too bright a green in this room - but even it seems to have had some of its colour leeched away. Matt is the only bright point, red and white and black against grey.
"Stay still a second," Foggy chastises. Matt stops squirming instantly. He rests his head against the back of the sofa as Foggy replaces his bindings. He can't help but suck in a breath when he sees the extent of the damage. Matt's knuckles are scarlet and scraped. "Who was it this time?"
Matt shrugs, and then winces. "One of them," he says. Foggy pitches forward, and kisses the bac of his hand briefly. Matt's mouth opens and shuts. "You don't know what you do to me."
"You have to be more careful." Foggy shakes his head. "If this happens again, I'm going to call Karen. Then you'll really hear about it."
"You wouldn't," Matt says, with the same easy security as before. Foggy swats his shoulders, dodging to one side when Matt makes a half-hearted parry.
"Don't tempt me," Foggy mutters. Standing, he is surprised by Matt reaching out towards him. "What is it, buddy?"
Matt smiles. "Foggy," he says, and Foggy's suddenly sitting beside him, and they're falling together, Matt's hands on his back. "You kissed me."
"I did," Foggy affirms. Matt's face lights up in a grin - his lips and teeth shine blue from the billboard outside, flashing brightly.
"You still want me," Matt says, "even after all this. Even after everything I've done."
And how can Foggy explain? What can he say? That he loves one side of him?
"Yeah. Yeah." Foggy rests his head against Matt's chest. He can hear his heart thumping. "You and me. Avocados at law. We'll work it out."
"You should've taken Spanish with me," Matt whispers, against Foggy's neck. "That way, we could have been together for longer."
"El grande avocados," Foggy hums. "We were awesome."
Matt plays with his hair, fingers moving back and forth with a rigid intensity - it's like an exploration, like he's trying to map and remember everything strand. Foggy closes his eyes, and listens to the sounds Matt makes.
.
Foggy falls asleep early and wakes restless. He paces the apartment; he pours them both coffee. Matt's cup cools. Foggy stands in the doorway, grapping with the mug, and watches Matt's chest rise and fall.
Matt has a black eye. It's swollen up overnight; yesterday, it was just a darker bruise. Foggy can't speak. He just stands there and watches the discolouration shift as Matt's eyelids twitch open.