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Jack is crying. It feels like Jack is always crying now that his teeth have started coming in. Foggy’s pacing with him in the office-turned-nursery down the hall, back and forth, back and forth, bare feet soft on the floorboards. Jack is crying, shrill, lung-rattling cries that seem to echo off every possible surface, and Matt’s head aches, tension knotting tight along his neck, pain lancing through his skull and piling high with every lap Foggy makes of the nursery.
Jack is crying and Matt is immobile, lies prone in bed with Claire’s stitches pulling tight across his skin, hollowed out by exhaustion and pain. Fear itches down his spine, even now that he’s miles from the waterfront, churns inside him still.
Matt listens to the drag of Foggy’s palm over the soft jersey covering Jack’s back and the endearments he whispers in his attempts to sooth him. When those don’t work, Foggy pleas—c’mon jitterbug, please. Please, Jack, Jack, my man you need to stop. It hurts, I know it hurts but it won’t make them grow faster. Please Jacky, just give it a break. Please—but Jack just keeps crying. Foggy’s voice is a taunt wire on the verge of snapping, winding tighter and tighter with every repetition.
Matt listens and listens and listens.
-
“Do superheroes get paternity leave? Is it paid?” Foggy asks, tipping the pot over the edge of the sink. Matt hears the telltale slosh and plop of cooked pasta draining into a waiting colander. The temperature of the kitchen rises as the steam billows into the air, turns to condensation on the windows. Matt shakes his head at the cutting board in front of him, “You’re confusing us with the Avengers again. Stark doesn’t foot our bill.”
Foggy chuckles but his breathing shifts, turns slow and deliberately even. “Karen was right. I should have taken up with the Falcon.” Matt stills his knife, unsure of whether to prod or let Foggy come to it in his own time. This is a conversation they’ve been skirting for months now, started before anything was ever finalized, when everything was still a hypothetical, but never finished. They’ve both been afraid of the answer.
“He is a great guy,” Matt says amicably enough, resuming his chopping. Foggy’s heart falls into a new rhythm, scattered and frantic. His breathing remains calm. Matt listens to him swallow; transfer the pasta back into the pot. “I guess,” Foggy starts, voice so painstakingly causal Matt can’t bring himself to call Foggy out on every single red flag his body is giving off. “Guess what I’m trying to ask is if Daredevil’s still going to be making headlines while you’re out of the office.”
Matt rests his knife on the cutting board, wipes his hands on a dish towel before turning around to face the direction of Foggy’s voice at the sink. He can’t see Foggy but this isn’t a conversation Foggy should have with Matt’s back.
He’s thought about it for months (years) now, weighed every possible option and its foreseeable consequences. Matt’s no superhero. He can break a man’s nose with his fists but he can’t stop a car with one hand, isn’t invulnerable to attack. Nearly a decade of worrying that something the Devil did might affect Matt Murdock’s life but in the end it’s going to be the other way around.
He presses his lips together. He hoped the answer would be obvious. He ignores the sting of knowing Foggy didn’t think it was. “I’m taking some time off.” He says trying to match the ease Foggy’s trying so hard to project. He doesn’t quite manage. “I meant what I said Foggy. We’re doing this together.”
Foggy shifts, tension collecting along his body like condensation on a pane of glass. “And the others…they’re okay with that? You taking time off, I mean.”
It hadn’t really been a matter of discussion. They’ve been working together on and off for almost five years now, their tenuous trust somewhat stronger now than it was before. No one pushed when Matt told them he had something he needed to take care of.
“Yeah they’re fine.”
(Matt prays it’s true.)
-
Later (hours or maybe only minutes that feel like hours, when Jack’s cries have finally tapered off into fitful inhales that hint that this is only a brief intermission before the crying renews) the bedroom door opens. Matt keeps his eyes closed, tries to focus on his breathing. It feels like hiding and Matt’s not sure what he’s trying to hide from exactly, contemplates keeping his eyes closed for as long as possible to see how long he can avoid whatever is coming for him.
Foggy sits by Matt’s feet, exhales hard like his entire body is deflating. Matt can hear it, his lungs constricting, his body folding onto itself as he sags forward, the blunt impact of his forearms resting along his thighs. Foggy runs his fingers through his hair and his breath catches dangerously in his chest like a warning. The memory of drowning resurfaces with all the violence of a punch that startles the air out of Matt’s weary lungs. His shoulder, popped back into its socket only hours ago, aches with the tension holding Matt’s body still, and he wants so badly to make things alright, a fruitless desire that throbs through his veins. Matt feels his own face contort, frustration and guilt and fear tearing through him, it casts him adrift without direction. His eyes grow damp beneath his eyelids (Stick had always been so disappointed by Matt and his inability to rein in his emotions). His breathing skids out of control and the next breath he draws in is ragged—and God, that hurts—there’s no doubt that Foggy heard it.
Foggy’s hand closes over Matt’s ankle. Matt’s heart beats so hard he almost can’t hear Foggy’s over the echo of it inside his ears.
“Matt—” Foggy swallows and his breathing becomes a jagged thing, razor-edged, the sound of it is as suffocating as being submerged in the deafening depths of the river. And Matt is drowning all over again, held under by the knowledge that this is it, this is one mistake too many, a fuck up Foggy can’t forgive. Matt made a promise he couldn’t keep and Foggy knows it now as Matt knew even when he made it.
This is what Matt had been afraid of all those years ago, even before Foggy and he had become this, back when Matt had understood he would be better off alone. When had Matt gotten so stupid? He’s always been selfish but he’s always known better. The people he loves never stay.
“Fuck,” Foggy’s fingers squeeze and Matt hisses involuntarily. Claire said it was just a sprain, reminded him he was lucky it hadn’t broken it (when she'd sighed, it had been a soft sound, disappointed and small, and Matt’s throat had burned with all the excuses he didn’t have and that no one would believe if he did). Foggy jerks away. “Fuck sorry, sorry—” His hand settles again higher, careful. “I’m not—we’re not going anywhere.” Foggy’s palm curves over Matt’s shin, broad and heavy. There’s salt in the air, warm on Matt’s tongue. “But you can’t either. Matt. You can’t leave. I can’t do this alone, not without you.”
Foggy’s hand trembles, Matt can feel the minute tremors of it through the blankets. It shakes loose a memory in Matt’s skin. Another night, when Matt was drowning in pain and failure, Foggy’s hand unsteady on his forehead, fingers barely brushing through his dirty hair. “What the fuck are you doing Matt?” Foggy had asked, but Matt hadn’t been able to answer, his voice a strangled, pained whine. Foggy’s voice had chased him into a dream, deep and dark and ruthless as a river.
“I’m sorry.” He whispers now like he couldn’t then, “I’m sorry.” For not being quick enough, for getting hurt, for letting them down.
“Don’t be sorry.” Foggy’s voice is pitched low with barely banked fury, and Matt presses his lips together to keep from apologizing again. The cut on the inside of his lip reopens, coats his tongue with the heavy taste of copper. “Don’t be sorry,” Foggy says again, but the anger’s gone, replaced by something brittle, something that scares Matt more than anger ever does. Foggy draws in a breath, holds it, one second, two.
He feels so far away.
“I need you here Matty.” Foggy’s never asked Matt to stop, not since that first fight and Matt has spent the last eight years surviving on prayers and luck, incredulous and so profoundly grateful for every single second Foggy’s trusted him enough to forgive Matt for what he does. “You can’t—I need you to come back.”
It’s worse than any ultimatum, Foggy’s voice stripped of everything but his quiet desperation.
“I will, Foggy.” He says weakly, because he wants to believe it, begs to every saint for intercession, prays to God that it can be true. His fingers twists into the sheets at his side so tightly his knuckles hurt. “I’m here.” I’ll always be here he wants to say but he doesn’t. He can taste the lie of it regardless.
-
The first time Matt holds Jack is like a revelation, a kind of gut-punch certainty that knocks the air out of Matt’s lungs. Love is always the most brutal in its ambush. It doesn’t feel anything like the elation Mrs. Nelson had described feeling the first time the adoption coordinator had placed Foggy in her arms. It’s another feeling all together, something more akin to the fear that took a hold of Matt the day he woke up to his unending darkness and never quite let go. It’s the rushing unknown, flooding in at once, and Matt tightens his grip on the baby in his arms just a little bit more.
“He’s tiny.” Matt says stupidly. He’s small, smaller than Matt had anticipated. Foggy chuckles, a breathless sound, “Yeah.”
He’s warm too. There’s a subtle sweetness to his skin that Matt can’t be bothered to break down to its component parts. He presses his nose to the crown of the baby’s head, nuzzles just barely against the soft knit cap covering wispy hair. The baby wiggles within the confines of his blankets, tiny limbs and miniscule lungs and rapidly fluttering heart that beats inside the delicately steepled bones of his chest. Matt forces his arms to relax, tries to do as the instructor in their parenting class had said.
“Are you sniffing our kid?” Foggy asks, and Matt doesn’t need to see to hear the smile in his voice or feel the uncompromised happiness that rolls off him in waves. Matt wants to answer, but his voice breaks around the lump in his throat. He earns Foggy’s hand on his arm, his fingers squeezing tight. He wants Foggy to describe him again, like he’d described the picture the adoption agency had sent them, wants to know how he compares. It can’t compare now that he’s real, a weight in Matt’s arms, a warmth against his chest. And Matt is terrified and certain, filled with a devotion that borders on idolatry. He can’t find it in him to care.
-
Matt wakes to the click of the door easing shut.
It takes a moment to orient himself, to shift through the cataclysm of noise—sirens and engines and footsteps and voices, so many voices, overlapping and bleeding together. He picks out the sound of Foggy’s retreating steps, the quick skipping-stone beat of someone at the door. Karen, Matt guesses, from the light retreating cadence, purposefully quiet in deference to Jack.
He turns his attention away when Karen starts speaking (“How is he?” “He’ll live.” “How are you?” Foggy’s sigh frays in his throat), does his best to ignore the details of a conversation he’s not a part of.
He listens to Jack.
It’s easy, second nature to Matt now after less than a year with him. He picks up the sound of Jack’s heartbeat through the thin walls of their apartment as easily as he heard Jack’s wailing earlier. But Foggy and Karen’s voices are still there, two among the countless other murmuring voices Matt can’t entirely tune out right now, tired as he is.
It hurts to move, but Matt forces his limbs to cooperate, reaches over to the nightstand on Foggy’s side of the bed. He probes at the air until his fingers close around the smooth plastic sides of the baby monitor Foggy keeps there.
It turns on with a pop of static, fuzzy silence on the other end. He can’t hear Jack’s heart over the monitor, but he can still hear him, random trills and squawks and chirps. Jack babbles to himself, gums soft syllables for Matt to listen to. Foggy’s convinced he’ll be speaking before year’s end and Matt’s inclined to agree. Jack laughs to himself at the jangle of the plastic key ring he’s been favoring since he started teething, uneven and high-pitched and so raw in its joy that Matt wants to keep it forever.
He never thought he’d be a father. First, too young to give it much thought, then, burning with anger and purpose, it hadn’t seemed fair, not to himself or to any family he might have. What he wanted felt insignificant compared to that inescapable fact.
But Matt’s life has always been a lesson in things he’s never planned for.
Jack was in no way unplanned.
It had been a discussion executed over the course of years, agreed to one inauspicious night on their living room couch, the events of the last seven years enough to alleviate some of the overbearing weight of responsibility Matt had taken on himself. Knowing that for all the darkness, the city wasn’t lost.
Their life together wasn’t empty before Jack. Professionally they’ve done well for themselves, their tiny three-person operation grown in to an establishment in Hell’s Kitchen. Outside the office, they had the home they’d built together. “Kids, no kids, we’re a family Murdock, you’re stuck with me.” Foggy had assured him, and Matt knows they would have been happy even if they’d decided not to pursue children.
Their happiness now is something new altogether, a living breathing thing that seems to grow inside him. Somedays Matt thinks it was always there, a seed waiting for the right season to grow.
“Fatherhood’s a good look on you.” Claire had said lightly the first time she’d visited them after bringing Jack home. The apartment had been a mess, and Foggy had run out eight minutes earlier for diapers and Jack cried every time Matt tried to put him down. He hadn’t seen what exactly fatherhood looked like in a long time, though he remembered how heavily his father had worn his own weariness on his face after Matt’s mother had left. Matt had been tired and at a loss, but he had smiled, one hand splayed across Jack’s back. “Thanks.”
Daredevil hadn’t been seen in the three weeks since they’d brought Jack home, wouldn’t be spotted again on the streets of Hell’s Kitchen until Jack was months older. Those patrols first patrols back had been short, small circuits that gradually grew wider, grew longer though never quite so long as they had been before, the guilt of leaving Foggy alone with Jack throughout the night heavy on his mind.
Even then Matt had been kidding himself. It only takes a second to die.
-
“What do you mean he doesn’t have a name yet?” Anna Nelson asks, her hands soft over Matt’s where they rest on the baby. “You two have been arguing about it for months.”
“It wouldn’t be so hard if someonedidn’t have a problem with everything I suggest.” Foggy says sourly though he’s still snapping pictures with his phone so he can’t actually be too upset.
“We’re not naming him after a ninja turtle.”
“But it would be so cool!”
Foggy’s dad snorts. “You know Foggy your mother wanted to name you Cary.”
“Well while I’m glad you picked a dead president over an actor, I still wish it hadn’t been one that made all the kids in class call me a tortoise for years on end.”
He listens to the Nelsons bicker affably with one another for a few minutes, the baby still dozing against his chest. There hadn’t really been arguing. They hadn’t known whether they would have a boy or a girl, or if they’d even need a name, but it had been fun to throw out possible choices, each seemingly more ridiculous than the last.
Karen had bought them a truly massive encyclopedia of baby names, and Foggy’s favorite pastime for the last two months has been calling names at random around the apartment. “You sure I can’t sell you on Raphael? We could call him Ralphie.” Foggy says that night as they’re getting ready for bed.
Matt chuckles, “I guess it’s better than Donatello.”
”Hey don’t knock Donnie. It’s definitely a strong contender for middle name.”
He doesn’t expect Foggy to carry on the conversation once they’re in bed, but he does, reaching over Matt to pull open the drawer of his night stand. He smacks Matt in the chest with his bible. “Alright buddy, you’re gonna open this and I’m gonna pick a name at random and whatever we get is his name, cool?”
“What if it’s something like Pedaiah?”
“Then we’ll call him Pedi and tell him to take it up with you. Or, hey, Pedi-Cab. Now get flipping.”
The bible’s spine is soft beneath his fingers, the pages silky as he thumbs them open at random. It had been a gift from his father at Matt’s first communion. If he concentrates hard he can almost make out certain passages under his fingertips when he touches its thin pages. Foggy leans against him to point at the page. “Okay and the winner is…oh, sure I can’t talk you into Michelangelo?”
“Why? What is it?”
“Man, I’m about to butcher it, I think it’s ion-a-than.” Foggy sounds the name out awkwardly. “I think I missed this episode of Veggie Tales, buddy.”
Matt grins, “Its Latin. It’s mostly translated into Jonathan now.”
Foggy whistles under his breath. “Those nuns were not messing around when they taught you at that orphanage were they?”
Matt closes the bible in his lap, sets it down out of the way on the bedside table. Foggy clicks the light off on his side of the bed, the mattress squeaks as they settle down for sleep. Matt turns towards Foggy, seeks out the solid warmth of him and presses against his back. Foggy’s hair tickles his nose when Matt breathes in. “You know I had my heart set on Shredder but Jonathan could work too. Don’t you think?” Foggy’s asks, voice soft with growing drowsiness.
Matt hums at the back of his throat, “I guess we could call him John. Or Johnny.”
”Pitiful Murdock, you have no creative vision—”
”I don’t have any vision—”
Foggy pinches his arm, “Whatever, we’ll work on it.”
Matt buries his smile in Foggy’s shoulder. “Yeah?”
Foggy’s hand covers Matt’s where it rests on his stomach, he laces their fingers together. “Well my finger has spoken, it would totally lose face if we didn’t listen to it.”
They name him Jonathan. (“Nelson-Murdock? You sure?” “What I’d tell you about my hearing?”)
Of course, it’s Foggy who first calls him Jack.
-
Matt wakes to the sound of the bedroom door inching open. There’s the scent of food (buttered bread and cheese, tomato soup, tea. Simple, comforting food. Matt’s throat aches), and the soft floral touch of the perfume Karen’s grown fond of in the last few months. He wonders how long he’s slept, what time it is, if Foggy’s been back since. Convalescing always feels like being removed from time, coming in and out of consciousness, unsure of what he’s missed. The monitor is nowhere within reach and he can’t hear the static buzz of it which signifies it’s still on.
“Matt?” Her heels click on the floorboards as she approaches. “Are you awake?”
She walks around to the empty side of the bed (Foggy’s side of the bed) and Matt let’s his eyes open, waits out the prolonged pause of Karen setting the tray down. There’s a flick, Foggy’s bedside lamp being turned on, and then the gentle rattle of dishes and cutlery as she slides the tray to make room for herself against the headboard.
“What time is it?” he asks, voice rough, listens to the quiet clink of Karen’s watch against the bracelets she wears on her right wrist.
“It’s almost noon. Foggy made lunch. Claire said you’re not supposed to take the painkillers on an empty stomach.” He hasn’t eaten since dinner the night before he went out. His stomach aches. He’s not sure if its hunger or guilt.
“Can I have water?”
Karen’s hands hover just out of reach as Matt sits up, ready to assist but willing to let him do it on his own. Matt sips his water slowly, listens to Karen’s breathing and the traffic outside and the birds nesting up on the roof. The rain’s stopped.
Outside the bedroom door the apartment is silent. The quiet makes Matt uneasy.
“Foggy took Jack outside for a bit.” Karen supplies before the sickly panic in Matt’s chest can fully rise in his throat. “They’ll be back soon.”
Matt sets his glass down on his bedside table, tries to get comfortable against the pillows behind him. His back hurts, but it would be easier to list the things that don’t hurt at this point. Matt’s not new to the feeling. “You got stuck on babysitting duty?”
Karen shrugs, her shoulders loose, “True you’re not as cute as Jack.” She’s been a godsend all these years, a friend as integral to Matt’s life as Foggy and Claire. Her kindness is tempered by her determination, her dedication to justice as ruthless as Matt’s own. She’s never handled Matt with kid gloves, he trusts her to tell him the truth when he’s most afraid to hear it.
“How are they?” He asks, smoothing his fingers over the comforter in his lap. He honestly doesn’t know what he expects. Foggy worries. Foggy gets upset when Matt gets himself hurt. Foggy promised not to leave.
Foggy’s not the liar.
“Jack’s almost got three whole teeth, but you already know that. And Foggy’s…Foggy.” Karen says lightly, “You scared him.”
Matt nods. He knows. He remembers his own fear, being forced under the water and held there, kicking and twisting as his lungs burned in his chest. He remembers thinking of Foggy waiting and Jack’s crying and how he wouldn’t hear it again if he died there. It makes his stomach hurt to think of it now.
“I’m sorry.”
Karen sighs. “You don’t have to apologize to me.” Karen’s fingers are warm around his wrist, “Just give him some time.” She says her voice bordering somewhere between suggestion and order. “And I know you’ve already heard this but I think it bears repeating: You need to be careful—you, we need you to stay alive okay? No one can do what you do Matt. And I don’t mean Daredevil. I mean Matt Murdock. We need him to stick around for as long as he can.”
Karen’s pulse races in her fingertips, sings at her wrists, her throat, at the center of her chest. He reaches over with his free hand, covers her hand with his bruised and battered fingers. “I want to stick around too.” The words stick in his throat, a hard-won truth he never allows himself to inspect too closely. Matt’s imagined his death so many times for so many years now. He always imagined himself running towards it, rushing to meet it on his own terms just like his father. Matt put on the mask knowing it would kill him one day, he just never imagined there would be a day when dying felt like too high a price.
“Good.” Karen nods, her hair sighs over her shoulders, smells of hibiscus. “Make sure you tell Foggy that.”
-
He doesn’t tell Foggy.
He wants to, after Karen leaves and Foggy comes back, when he brings Jack into the room and lowers him carefully onto Matt’s lap. “Say hi to your old man jitterbug.” Foggy says brightly, “Wanna tell him about the birds you saw?” Jack babbles happily, waves his arms at Matt though Foggy doesn’t relinquish his hold on his torso, keeps him from folding over and supporting himself on Matt’s bruised ribs.
Matt wants to tell Foggy how badly he wants to be here, how much he doesn’t want to lose this, about the fear that bit at him when he thought of never coming back. But Jack’s there, smelling like rain and wet grass and hypoallergenic lotion, and Foggy’s heart isn’t quite steady but it is near, and it is all more than Matt’s ever deserved. Jack’s legs give and he plops down on Matt’s thighs with an unhappy squawk, begins to fuss and squirm against Foggy’s hold. “I can take him.” Matt says, slipping his hands over where Foggy’s are on Jack’s torso, hoisting him carefully back to standing. “Careful.” Foggy warns, one hand still supporting Jack’s back as he toddles closer to Matt.
He’ll tell Foggy later, Matt promises himself, when Jack’s asleep and Foggy’s pulse has smoothed over. He will. For now it’s enough to have this.
-
He doesn’t tell Foggy that night, or the next, or the one that comes after. Foggy comes back from the couch, and Matt sleeps easier for it, even on the nights when he wakes shaking and cold, the memory of river water sour in his mouth (“It’s okay, you’re alright.” Foggy murmurs, palm gentle over Matt’s bruised side).
He doesn’t tell Foggy for the week he’s under house arrest and they spend their days navigating carefully around each other, their conversations so painstakingly constructed that it reminds Matt of those weeks following Foggy’s return to the office after finding Matt bleeding on his apartment floor.
He doesn’t tell Foggy after Foggy finally, finally, finally touches his face and pulls him into a kiss, mouth trembling and unsure and Matt kisses him back with every scrap of certainty inside him, like it’ll be enough to erase the worry that lingers under Foggy’s skin.
Matt doesn’t tell him and Matt doesn’t tell him and he doesn’t tell him. Daredevil might be the man without fear, but Matt’s never been as brave without the mask.
-
Kristen calls on a Thursday morning while Foggy’s trying to convince Jack he really does want to eat steamed sweet potato. Since the official story is that Matt is recovering from an errant bike messenger knocking him off the sidewalk, Foggy pulls on a suit for the first time in weeks and goes into the office. He leaves the sweet potatoes to Matt, drops a kiss on both their heads and tells them to play nice until he comes home.
After he’s done wiping the lion’s share of Jack’s breakfast off his face and the surface of his high chair he deposits Jack in his play pen. He’s not supposed to carry Jack for extended periods of time in deference to his ribs and ankle, and while Matt misses the reassuring weight of him in his arms, the firm pat of Jack’s hands against his face and in his hair, he doesn’t want to risk dropping him if something were to happen.
He settles onto the couch besides the play pen, keeps on ear on Jack and other on the rain falling against the roof, the windows, the streets below.
Their morning is interrupted by a thud out on the fire escape, a sudden crash that startles Jack and sets Matt on edge until he hears the familiar tap of a blunt nail on the glass. “Hurry up its pissing rain out here.” He hears Jessica shout through the window pane. Matt rolls his eyes, limps gingerly towards the window.
The wood creaks under Jessica’s brutal grip when she curls her fingers under it to help push it up. She shakes herself off once she’s in, scatters rain water all over. Matt catches the scent of leather and wet cardboard and cold metal. There’s something else too, something he can’t place. He inhales again to try and place it.
“Drop the bomb dog act, hornhead.” She snaps impatiently, over the steady drip of rainwater off her clothing.
“I have a front door you know.” He answers politely, like he has a hundred times before. He can practically hear her eyes roll.
“Claire said you were gonna be out of commission again, thought I’d drop by and see the damage for myself.” She pushes past him and he follows the wet squeak of her boots across the floor. She does take a moment to remove her jacket before dropping onto the couch, wiggles her fingers over the edge of Jack’s play pen in a movement that’s almost too small for Matt to catch. “Still growing there, baldy.” She says by way of greeting and Jack stops chewing on a stuffed animal to jabber at her.
“You didn’t have to make a house call.” Matt says lightly, easing himself on to the couch besides her, fists curling into the pockets of his sweater.
Jessica shrugs. “I’d tell you you were on my way to something better but you’d just be an asshole about how I’m lying, so, whatever, it is what it is Murdock, no need to turn it into a whole production.”
Matt picks at the seam running along the inside of his right pocket. They’ve never spent much time together outside of cases and patrols, and those few times they have there has usually someone else there to buffer between them, be it Luke or Foggy or even Hogarth. Left alone they sit in this type of overly cautious silence that hangs heavy on them both. Matt clears his throat.
“If you’re going to chew me out for not asking for help that night—”
“Not here to do that either.” The truth.
“So then what are you here for?” Matt hedges, nails pinching at a perfect row of stitched.
Jessica holds herself still, breath practically held for a long second. “Thought you could use some company that wasn’t in diapers.” She picks up the remote then, clicks the television on. Jessica flips through the channels quickly, usually before Matt can even try to piece together what’s on the screen. She stops on C-SPAN of all things.
“You ever worry you’re gonna fuck him up irrevocably?” Jessica asks after nearly half an hour on the history of government employee unions. Matt doesn’t have to ask who she’s referring to.
“All the time.”
Jessica shrugs. “Yeah. Pretty sure that’s all parents are good for. Whether they’re there or not.”
There’s something on her mind, even if she’s taking a circular road to it, Matt doesn’t push. Jessica never gets anywhere until she’s ready.
They watch another twenty minutes of television before she speaks again. “If you had to choose between being there to hear them blame you for everything wrong in their lives or being someone who might be worth remembering, what would you do?”
There’s the jangle of Jack’s teething ring, the bang of it against the walls of his play pen. It draws Jessica’s attention. “I like to think it doesn’t have to be one or other.” Matt says, finally pulling a single thread free. (He does not think of his father.)
Jessica remains turned away from him. “Which one are you working for?” Matt tugs hard on the thread pinched between his nails. It unravels another centimeter. “Jessica—”
“Yeah, I thought as much.” Her voice is characteristically acerbic, but there’s something to the timber of her heart, something nervous and agitated that makes him wish she would keep talking and tell him whatever it is she doesn’t want to say. Foggy jokes that they’re bonding usually only occurs with a healthy dose of brooding. He’s not entirely wrong. She pushes herself off the couch, throws the remote at him. “I’ve gotta go. See you around, hornhead. Or whatever.”
She walks out the front door this time.
-
Foggy comes home rain damp and tired, bearing news from the office and dozens of well-wishes for Matt. “How’s my buckaroo?” Foggy asks, lifting Jack out of his crib where he’s been refusing to nap.
“Buckaroo?”
Foggy rolls his shoulders, “Heh, just trying it out.” He blows a raspberry against Jack’s stomach and elicits Jack’s gurgling laugh.
“Don’t you ever worry he’s not going to know what his real name is?” Matt asks, leaning against the crib. He thinks about telling Foggy about Jessica’s visit, her line of questioning, her abrupt departure. But Jack is still laughing in Foggy’s arms. Later, Matt thinks, he’ll bring it up later.
Foggy snorts, bounces Jack up and down a few times, “You hear that jitterbug? Your dad thinks I’m giving you an identity crisis. Think it’s time I get you a little suit, huh? Take up your old man’s mantle?” The levity in Foggy’s voice is genuine, but the memory of river water resurfaces in his throat, Jack’s laughter warped and faraway.
Foggy jostles his arm, “Earth to Matt, Earth to Matt, come in Murdock.” The world snaps back into focus.
-
“I don’t know buddy, maybe white’s not his color.”
Thwack. “Foggy!”
“Ow! We’re in church Karen. You’re probably not supposed to be hitting me. Worse honorary godmother ever.” Matt shakes his head at their bickering, keeps himself out of the discussion entirely by checking that Jack hasn’t pulled off his shoes again.
“Don’t listen to him Matt, Jack looks adorable. Very handsome.”
“Hey I didn’t say he looked bad, I’m just pointing out that he will literally never wear that get up again and he’s going to make a mess all over himself as soon as we get out of here. White is the least baby-friendly color ever.”
Jack chirps, gumming on his own fist, happier now than he was this morning when Matt was dressing him.
There’s the telling slap of Karen’s hand against Foggy’s arm. “Again: ow.”
“Do you think you can remove your fashionista hat long enough to take a picture with your son?” Karen asks, voice sugary-sweet and dangerous if disobeyed. Foggy’s response if silent, a series of shrugs and hand waves as he wanders over to Matt and Jack. “C’mere jitterbug. Or is it Pop-Eye today? You’ve got like a real Officer and a Gentleman meets Spring Awakening thing going for you right now.”
Matt laughs. “Don’t let your mother hear you say that.”
”Try not to narc on me.”
Foggy lifts Jack out of Matt’s arms, and Jack hums happily, settles contently against Foggy’s chest, kicking his feet in the air the whole while.
“C’mon my one and only, you’re in this picture too.” Foggy pulls Matt into position, drapes an arm along his shoulders.
“Straight ahead.” Karen calls softly and Matt waits until she gives the all clear to move.
There’s a knock at the door and Father Lantom enters, the soft sweep of his robes swishing as he walks. “Everyone ready?”
Foggy adjusts Jack against his shoulder, reaches down for Matt’s hand with his free hand. “Ready?”
“Ready.”
-
“I’ve been thinking,” Matt starts on a Wednesday almost a month after he crawls his way out of the river. Foggy stops mid-sentence in the middle of his narration of the movie they’ve been trying to watch for the last three nights. Matt honestly doesn’t know what it’s about.
“Well that sure sounds ominous.” Foggy sighs with forced flippancy, still so prone to arming himself with humor against the worst Matt throws at him.
Matt rests his hand on Foggy’s knee, though he’s not sure who it’s meant to reassure. “I’ve been thinking about what happened that night—” He doesn’t know if he has to specify which night he means. There haven’t been very many since, and the few he has had have been brief. Foggy’s relief when he returns fills the apartment. Matt tightens his hold a fraction more. “When I first started—when I put on the mask, I felt like I didn’t have a choice. That I needed to do it because it was the only way to help Hell’s Kitchen. But it wasn’t—nothing we do—“ he stops, licks his lips, tries to reorient himself. He ran the words over more than a dozen times in his head but none of them fit right anymore. He swallows. “I made a choice Foggy. One that I’ve lived with all these years, one that I’ve made you live with. You and everyone else who cares about me, and that hasn’t been fair—”
“The world’s not fair.” Foggy says, not an accusation or recrimination, just a matter of fact, indisputable. He’s not chastising Matt for not acknowledging it, just reminding him. “And we made our choices too.”
Matt nods, emboldened. “And I’ll never—I can’t repay you, any of you, for that. For everything you’ve done.”
Foggy’s hand covers his, palm hot over the back of Matt’s hand. “No one’s looking for payment. I’m not—this isn’t a transaction Matt. I don’t expect to break even.”
“We’re partners.” Matt persists, but he’s veering off course now, his carefully prepared speech falling to pieces, “We’re supposed to support each other—”
“Yeah. That means accepting help when it’s what you need—”
“That means making choices that are right for both of us.”
Foggy breathes out hard, pulls his hand away. “If this is you trying to do some ass backward honorable thing I’m not interested. Got that Matt? I do not have time for your self-sacrificing heroics right now; I’ve got to make dinner.”
He pushes to his feet, walks away before Matt can catch his hand. There are words percolating in Matt’s throat, words he’s been collecting for weeks now, words he didn’t know how to say before now. Foggy needs to hear them. Matt follows him into the kitchen.
“I’m not doing any of that, I just—I need you to listen. Please.”
Foggy’s heart is a snare drum inside his chest, quickening with every step Matt takes towards him. “I don’t want to leave Foggy. I love—our life together. Our family. I want to be here, with you and Jack and Karen and—all of you.” Matt’s own pulse roars in his ears, blazes red across the surface of his skin, The words aren’t enough to convey what he feels for them, the magnitude of his desire to be here, to remain a part of this life. “And I’ve always told myself that it didn’t have to be a choice between the city and my life, but maybe it should be.” Foggy’s heart trips and stumbles but Matt presses on. “So I’ve been thinking but the truth is there isn’t anything to consider, there are no pro and cons to weigh here Foggy. I choose us. You and Jack and all—everyone.”
Foggy’s breathing hitches in his throat. “What—Matty—the city?”
Matt blink rapidly, warmth building behind his eyes. “I can find other ways to help.” He says, and he wants so badly for Foggy to understand him, to believe him. “We’ll do it together. The way we always do.”
Foggy steps forwards, hands tight on Matt’s arms. “You can’t—I’m not trying to talk you out of it, but Matt you can’t do this because you think it’s what I or anybody else wants. I know you man, it’s not going to work. Maybe for a little while but it’ll pick at you Matty, and sooner or later it won’t be enough to sit by the sidelines and let other people fight the good fight. It isn’t how you operate.”
Matt shakes his head, “That’s not what’s happening. I’m not trying to do what I think you want. Don’t you think I would have done this years ago if that was it? I—you hate this, you’ve always hated this Foggy. But you’ve always understood why I do it. Now I need you to understand why I can’t, not anymore. Things are different now Foggy. I can let it be different. Hell’s Kitchen isn’t alone. The others, they’ll still be there and I can still help them. I’ll do whatever I can from the other side of the law. They’ll understand. I have to take care of what’s important.” Matt’s heart beats, beats, and beats in his throat but he pushes his voice pass it, “My dad made a choice a long time ago Foggy, he decided I would be better off without him and I don’t want to make that mistake. I don’t want Jack to think he wasn’t a good enough reason to stay.” Matt reaches out, curls his fingers into the sides of Foggy’s shirt but doesn’t pull him any closer. “I can be someone worth remembering without leaving.”
“Jesus Christ Matt of course—you are you dumbass. You’re so fucking—”Foggy’s disbelief trembles in his hands as they yank Matt forward, but his arms are solid as a vice when they lock around Matt, hold Matt steady. “You’re for real? This is really what you want?” His voice flickers like an exposed flame but it doesn’t go out.
Matt nods against Foggy’s shoulder, fists the back of his shirt so hard his knuckles hurt. “Yeah—yes this is what I want.”
Foggy’s arms tighten, make Matt’s ribs ache. He doesn’t care. He holds on.
-
Matt makes sure to lower the volume on the baby monitor before he leaves the room. Jack hasn’t really started crying yet, but his fussing is likely to evolve into a full blown crying fit if he’s left alone much longer. It feels like they’ve barely had a chance to recover from the last tooth’s arrival but there’s already another one on its way. He lets Foggy sleep, knows how hard it is to face a full day of child care with little to no sleep. Besides, Matt thinks, pulling one of Jack’s pacifiers out of the refrigerator before proceeding down the hall, Matt feels like he hardly spent any time with him today.
Jack babbles at him when he catches sight of him, flails his arms and kicks his legs in the air. He latches onto the pacifier Matt offers him, content to let the cold sooth his irritated gums. He lets Matt lift him out of his crib, settles against his chest with a sleepy exhale. His temple is soft under Matt’s lips, his hair growing in thicker now. It takes Matt by surprise every time, how much he can change and grow in such a small span of time. There won’t be enough of it, Matt knows that for sure, no matter what he does, not enough time to experience it all.
He rubs at Jack’s back, talks to him—Matt makes up a story about the adventures of the cat two floors down—listens as Jack’s breathing slows with approaching sleep.
Matt considers returning to bed, about taking Jack with him. He takes a seat in the glider instead, rocks them both back and forth, back and forth, gently.
Just a little while longer, Matt thinks, and closes his eyes.
-
The End