Archive of Our Own ^beta

Important things come in threes.

Three people ahead of Foggy in line at the courthouse, all of them with iron nails in their pockets that they took out to go through the metal detector. Three bags of salt in a young mother's arms in the bodega this morning. Three drops of milk left in the bowl on Foggy's windowsill this morning.

So he's not surprised when Karen shows up to their meeting with her heels ringing against the pavement outside the cafe. “Iron?” he asks, because Foggy likes saying things out loud, and the city seems to be crawling with the shadows of things people aren't saying.

“Precautions for a new story I'm working on.” She looks a little sheepish, but she probably doesn't feel that way. It's part of why Foggy likes her so much. “Not the one that helped me find you a client.”

“You should tell me about both of them.”

“The client first. Come on, buy me coffee.”

Foggy does, because that's how this works, how it has worked ever since Foggy fought Hogarth to take Karen on pro bono when Brett called him, the first client he brought to the firm all on his own. He buys her coffee, and she brings him something he needs. A client, information, company after a rough day at court. Especially now that she's working at the Bulletin.

“There's a ring of crooked contractors,” Karen says when she has a coffee in front of her. She's tapping her foot, and the metallic ring is disconcerting. “They're trying to sue a carpenter for libel when he was one of the ones blowing the whistle on them. He needs legal representation. It shouldn't be too hard.”

“Or too lucrative. I'm getting a reputation in the firm as someone who gets plenty of clients but no billable hours.”

“And you get more good press than the rest of the firm combined. Can I give Mr. O'Neil your number?”

“Of course you can.” The meetings are just an excuse to spend time together at this point. “Now tell me the rest of it. You know I won't scoop your story.”

“It's technically Ben's story, I'm just doing research.” Foggy's eyebrows shoot up. Ben gets the big stories, and that makes him even more uneasy. “You've heard about all the criminals left in front of the police station lately, right?”

“Hasn't everyone?” A few have been rich enough and unobjectionable enough to make it onto the firm's roll of clients, but Foggy hasn't been able to sit in on a meeting where they describe how they actually got to the police station and the police aren't talking to the press about it.

“It's one man, doing it all. The criminals who get off, they call him the devil and they're very willing to stay in custody in case he comes back.”

Foggy thinks about Karen's iron shoes. “The devil, huh?”

“He doesn't use a gun. Or a knife that anyone's seen. He wears something like armor, maybe leather but it seems too strong for that, and a mask with horns on it. The horns are what got him the name.”

“I really hope you're not asking me to defend someone who goes around beating people up.”

Karen shakes her head. “Criminals. He's beating criminals up.”

“Great, so he's a vigilante.”

“And I don't think he's going to end up needing defending.”

Foggy sighs and sips his coffee. It's too strong for the afternoon, but a new client from Karen always means hours of research, so at least if he's up all night he can be productive. “The devil,” he says, just because they both know they're talking around it, everyone's talking around it, but there must be word getting around, because the security guard at the courthouse didn't even smirk at so many people with nails in their pockets.

“That's what they're calling him,” Karen agrees, and her iron heels tap tap tap against the ground while they both think about it.

“Story with your girlfriend's byline,” says Marci, tossing the day's Bulletin on Foggy's desk, directly on top of Mr. O'Neil's case file because her aim is always unerring. “Right after Urich's, she must be aiming for a Pulitzer.”

He doesn't bother saying Karen isn't his girlfriend. It's not the point. The point is the headline, the MYSTERIOUS 'DEVIL' SIGHTED AROUND HELL'S KITCHEN and a grainy picture that must be a screengrab from someone's security footage. “I already told her I'm not defending this guy if he comes here.”

“Not my point, Mr. Nelson.” She purrs it out while she leans on his desk. If Foggy has ever met a big cat in human form, it's Marci. Complete with the habit of playing with her food. “People know Page is friends with you. And you've handled Jones a time or two. People might ask you. Do you think he is?”

Foggy put an extra splash of milk in his bowl last night, and it was all gone this morning and his window was shining instead of grimy. He doesn't think that was the so-called devil, but that makes him even more nervous. It never means anything good, more of them in cities, risking the iron. “Not a lot of other things he could be. So you're just here for the gossip?”

“Mostly I'm here to tease you about Page,” she says, disarmingly honest. “But I'm a little curious. Come on, aren't you? They don't get involved in human affairs, at least not often.”

“And when they do, it never means anything good.”

“Exactly.” She nods, satisfied, and straightens the paper on his desk so it's front and center, just because she's an asshole like that. “So don't do anything stupid, okay, sweetie? Favor for me.”

She leans over, leaves a kiss on his cheek and a cloud of perfume in his nose, and she's out of his office before he realizes that the pendant she's wearing is in the discreet shape of a horseshoe.

Marci wants him to be careful, it seems, and Foggy can't think of any good reason why he needs to be singled out, but he doesn't like it.

Claire from down the hall is struggling with several bags on the stairs when Foggy gets home. “Want me to take one of those?” he asks.

“Thanks.” She gives him a brief smile, but that's a win with Claire. “It's been one of those days.”

“It really has.” The bag is a lot heavier than the laundry he was assuming it was, but Foggy's great at carrying things, so he doesn't complain about it. “Everyone's talking about this devil that's been beating up criminals.”

She snorts. “Devil. We just like to give people names, these days. Thanks to Tony Stark and Iron Man, and everyone involved in the Incident. He's just a man.”

“You don't think he's one of them, then? The Good People?” Claire is being careful, keeping her bag from bumping up against walls on the stairs, so Foggy is careful too, going around a corner, and it gets him another smile.

“One of the Fair Folk? No. Whether he's a good person or not remains to be seen.”

Foggy blinks, maybe because everyone's been talking around it all day and maybe because Claire sounds a lot more sure than he feels about it all. “That seems to be the one thing everyone agrees on.”

She shrugs. “There's no confirmation. There's just a blurry picture of someone in something that could be armor from across the border and a lot of beat-up criminals left at the police station door like presents from a stray cat. The Fair Folk don't need to leave people bloody to subdue them.”

They go up half a flight of stairs while Foggy thinks that over. “Maybe he likes it.”

“Maybe he does,” she says easily. “But there are people with guns and knives out there. Steel and iron. You think he hasn't met that? But he's alive.”

“It doesn't kill them, it just—”

“I think we don't want him to be human,” she says as they hit their floor, taking her bag out of his hands. Something inside it clangs. He's curious about what it is, but Foggy decides that plausible deniability is the best course of action. If Claire is carrying around murder weapons, there's probably a reason. “He's not fighting aliens or terrorists or government agencies or … robots, whatever else is out there. He's fighting regular people, so we don't want him to be one of them.”

Foggy considers that. “Because we don't want people to be that violent to each other, or because we think one of the Fair Folk might be doling out fair punishments?”

“You tell me, lawyer. I just know that the people he's sending to the hospital are the ones who hurt people, who send them to people like me in the hospital.” Claire puts down her bags to key into her apartment. “Stay safe, Foggy. And tell Karen to too. I read the papers.”

“I don't think anyone in the world has ever managed to get Karen to be careful.”

“I didn't say careful,” says Claire, and gives him a nod. “Night, Foggy.”

Foggy says goodnight and goes into his own apartment. He doesn't want to be rattled—New York has weathered the Fair Folk before, many times, and one man, human or from the next realm, isn't going to change that. Karen has Ben to watch out for her even though she's the exact kind of person the Fair Folk like to take, and Foggy isn't involved. There's no reason for him ever to be involved.

He lines his window with salt and St. John's wort when he puts his milk out, and when there's a creak on his fire escape that night he stays awake for an hour, listening for another sound.

“I'll pay,” says a stranger behind Foggy at his usual coffee place the next morning.

Foggy turns around, eyebrows raised, only to discover that the man is wearing sunglasses and carrying a cane and thus probably can't benefit from the raised eyebrow. “To what do I owe the honor?”

“I'm about to ask you for a favor.” He gestures at his face. “I can't read the menu. What can you recommend for me?”

“Food, drink, or both?”

He looks startled, for some reason, and then he smiles and Foggy feels abruptly fourteen and awkward with a crush on his history teacher again. “Both. I haven't had breakfast.”

“Well, the muffins are here are amazing. They've got blueberry this morning, always a classic choice, or raspberry or chocolate chip or … what is that, orange cranberry I think. How do you usually take your coffee?” The barista gives him an impatient look, but Foggy has been entrusted with a sacred duty and he's going to go with it.

“Hot,” says the man, but he looks confused again. No New York adult should be confused about how they take their coffee, Foggy is pretty sure. “And I'll try the raspberry. I … I like raspberry.”

Maybe he just got out of prison, or he's an alien in disguise or something, if he sounds that confused about his baked good preferences. There's a reassuring glint of metal around his wrist, so he's probably not from across the border. Either way, it's not Foggy's business, so he turns back to the barista. “Raspberry muffin and an Americano for the gentleman, we'll doctor it up how he likes it—medium okay, buddy?” He nods. “Medium. And you've got my order. To go for both.”

She rings it up after a pointed roll of her eyes, and Foggy reaches for his wallet only to get gently pushed out of the way. “I told you I would pay, didn't I? I owe you.”

“Well, you sort of made sure I owe you, but either way the end result is the same. You're getting the right amount of change back.” It's a lot, but it all gets dumped in the tip jar when the man feels it out. The barista looks rapidly less annoyed. “Come on, let's stand over here while we wait for our orders, there are people in line behind us. Order's for Foggy,” he tells the barista.

“Foggy? That's an interesting name.”

“It's not the one I came with, but it's the one I go by. How about you?”

There's a momentary pause. “Matt. It's nice to meet you, Foggy.”

“You too. I always like to rescue handsome strangers on weekday mornings.” He winces a little when Matt looks startled, but he stands by it. Backpedaling always makes things more awkward.

“Foggy,” calls the barista, and Foggy grabs their order, hands Matt his muffin and his coffee.

“I can help you with the milk and sugar if you want.”

Matt takes a sip, winces at the heat, and shakes his head. “No, I think I like it this way. You've been very helpful.”

“Glad to hear it. Thank you for buying, Matt.”

Matt tilts his head, and for one lurching second Foggy wonders if the glasses are actually because he has some kind of x-ray vision, because he feels completely transparent. “You should be careful who you thank,” Matt finally says. “Some people take that as an acknowledgment of debt.”

With that, Matt's back out on the street, swallowed up by the sidewalk traffic, leaving Foggy feeling unsettled and fiddling with the nail in his pocket.

Foggy has been mugged twice before, so he unfortunately knows the signs of what's going on when he finds himself isolated on the sidewalk and herded none-too-gently in the direction of some trash cans.

This time, it's three guys, two of whom have knives visible, and Foggy gets his wallet out without any fuss. “I'm going to take my ID out of here, guys, I am always at work when the bureau is open and it's honestly not going to do you any good. And my cards, I guess. Cash is yours, and subway card if you want it. There might be a restaurant gift certificate in there?”

Some guys relax when Foggy starts talking to them. These ones tense up, and he shuts up, extracts his cards and tosses the wallet to the guy without the knife. Reinforcing good behavior or something.

It's pretty businesslike from there, going into the part of the mugging where they all try to figure out how to get away with their dignity when it's pretty clear none of them have any, right until there's a rustle from above and someone says “Duck.”

Foggy, who has a lot of siblings, ducks, and so do most of the muggers, but they aren't the ones with some kind of stick whistling over their heads, and it catches one in the shoulder, makes him yell and drop his knife. Foggy looks up at the fire escape on a nearby building, and there's the devil, already in motion to jump on top of the next guy. He doesn't get a good visual, just a blur of some kind of really ridiculous costume with devil horns on the top and a really menacing smile, and he decides discretion is the better part of valor and backs off to call the cops.

The muggers are all on the ground by the time Foggy manages to make his report, and the man in the devil costume turns to him in time for Foggy to trail off and say “Okay, the violence seems to be done with but you might want to send a patrol car for these guys. And the vigilante, but I am willing to bet you he'll be gone by the time anyone gets here.”

“There will be a car with you in about five minutes, sir,” says the dispatcher with really enviable calm. “The officers will take your statement and the statements of the gentlemen with you.”

The devil produces some vinyl rope from an unseen pocket and starts actually tying the guys up. “Thanks,” says Foggy, and tries hard not to say anything about the kinks of people who wander around the city with horns and rope, because his face is his best feature and he doesn't want to be punched in it. “I think I'm safe right now, so I'm going to get off the phone.”

He hangs up even though the dispatcher is saying something displeased, because he's being watched like maybe the devil is waiting for him to say something or do something. He's breathing hard from the fight, and there are patches on his armor, and he's hunched over like he's hurting. A fairy would glamor all that away, Foggy is pretty sure. Maybe Claire is right that this man is just human. “You are safe,” says the devil. “I'm not going to hurt you. Do you want your wallet?”

“Yes, but I'm going to wait for the police to give it back to me. Chain of custody.” He gets a head tilt for that. “I'm a lawyer. That kind of thing matters.”

The devil apparently thinks that's pretty funny. It probably would be, if Foggy weren't so freaked out. “Does it?”

“It better, I spent a lot of money wagering on the fact that it does. But then again, maybe you bet on the opposite. That armor has to have been an investment.”

“It cost me.” Sirens start up down the street, and both of them jump. The devil nods down at the men. “They don't seem to be waking up, so I'll leave you. Stay safe.”

Foggy opens his mouth to say thank you, because illegally or not, the devil did just save his ass, and then he thinks about Matt from the coffee shop saying that some people will call in favors just based on thanks. He's starting to agree with Claire that the devil might be human, but he's not taking a chance with the fairy armor. “You too,” he says instead.

The devil makes a quiet noise that Foggy can't interpret. “Thanks,” he says after a moment, and before Foggy can respond to that, he's back on the fire escape he jumped off of and getting away while one of the muggers wakes up with a groan and the police patrol car squeals its way to a stop next to them.

“What does he look like?”

“Gee, Karen, glad you care so much about my welfare,” Foggy says, propping his phone against his ear while he keys into his building. “I am unbruised and miraculously in possession of all my money, including a gift certificate for Italian that I would be willing to share with you for the right incentive.”

“I know you're fine, Foggy,” she says, a little softer. “And I'm glad you are. But there are plenty of criminals who have seen him and not a lot of ordinary citizens, at least not ones that are willing to come forward. Anything you can tell me ...”

Foggy considers while he starts climbing the stairs. “I think he's human.” He nods at her sharp intake of breath even though she can't see him. “No glamor, and he seemed like he was maybe hurt. Maybe it's a clever disguise, but I don't think so.”

“There's a story there.”

“And I'm not going on the record with it—no, Karen, I'm sorry. But I've got a job that relies on my discretion. Getting my name splashed in the papers for this isn't going to help my reputation.”

That she drops it there is a sign of her deep affection for him, or that's what Foggy tells himself, anyway. “It gives me an avenue to look at for the story, anyway.”

“I bet if you find some of the victims, they'll say the same thing. Maybe one of them wouldn't lose professional credibility for going on the record.” Foggy remembers Claire, who got him thinking about it, carrying bags full of God knows what up the stairs. “Just be safe, okay?”

Karen laughs. “Who's the one who got mugged tonight?”

“Not me, my wallet and all its contents are safely in my possession.” He's not going to get a promise out of her, and he doesn't try for one. Karen's always going to be reckless when she's hunting down the truth. It's part of why he likes her so much. “Apparently I have a guardian devil. Maybe I should ask him to look out for you.”

“If you do, tell him I want an interview, not a bodyguard.” Silence on the line. “I'm glad you're okay, Foggy. I know this wasn't me, but I keep referring you these dangerous cases ...”

“The firm has the resources to keep me safe if I need it, and I'm the one who says yes. Your powers of persuasion are impressive, but I'm a lawyer, I'm kind of immune to them. I don't take any cases I don't want to take.”

Karen probably knows that's at least half a lie, but she doesn't call him on it. “Mr. O'Neil should be pretty safe for you, anyway. And I don't think you're going to end up defending the devil.”

Foggy shrugs. “He's a violent criminal and he's laughing in the face of the justice system that's in place for a reason, but he's not a bad guy.” He thanked Foggy for telling him to keep safe, and that's bothering Foggy, whenever he thinks about it.

“You can tell me anything you want,” Karen says. “Off the record.”

“Take me out for drinks this weekend and I'll let you interrogate me all you want. Tonight, I'm going to act like the gainfully employed adult I can and eat most of a pint of Ben and Jerrys before I go to sleep.”

It takes a few minutes to get Karen off the phone, a few last questions to make sure that he's okay and plans for the weekend, and Foggy is left alone with his quiet apartment. He's wanted to be alone ever since Brett showed up at the station while they were taking his statement and engaged in some really unprofessional schadenfreude, but now that he's on his own he thinks about knocking on Claire's door, continuing their conversation from the other night.

Instead, he gets out some ice cream and turns on the news until he's ready to try sleeping.

There's a noise on his fire escape almost as soon as he gets in bed. Maybe it's just some stray animal who's finally figured out that a person or two in this building keeps the old traditions and taking the easy meal. Just in case it isn't, Foggy clears his throat and says “If you want to talk, you could just knock. But clearly I got home safe, if that's what you were making sure about.”

There's not an answer, or a knock. Not that Foggy was expecting one.

He still sleeps terribly.

Foggy stays at the office late a few nights later, and on the way home he starts feeling watched. He's the first to admit he doesn't have the world's best situational awareness, so if he's noticing it, either he's being paranoid after the almost-mugging or someone's making it really obvious that they're watching him. He takes a turn a little out of his way, onto a quieter street, and the feeling persists.

“If you're watching me, just come say whatever it is,” he says, and hopes he's not making a miscalculation.

“I didn't have anything to say,” says the devil, from the squeezed space between two buildings.

Foggy doesn't go in. He's got some sense of preservation. “But you're following me. The bodyguard thing is nice, I guess, but I'm not mugged more than any other citizen of Hell's Kitchen. That was just random chance the other night.”

The devil shrugs, and it would probably make him look like a cocky asshole if Foggy couldn't see the way he winces moving his shoulder like that. “I'm not guarding you. I would if you were in danger, but you aren't.”

“Then why are you following me?”

“You're interesting.”

Foggy laughs. “I'm really not. And I think maybe I'm supposed to feel flattered, but you're a violent criminal who knocks people unconscious and probably kills them pretty regularly. Your attention doesn't seem like a safe thing to have.”

“I try not to kill.”

“Yeah, most people don't have to make that much of an effort at it.”

The devil tilts his head. “You aren't afraid of me.”

“Of course I am, you're terrifying,” says Foggy, mostly on automatic, but even if the devil is a criminal in general and stalking him in particular, he seems to like Foggy enough not to attack him. Foggy is willing to trust in that for now. “You're stalking me,” he points out, since that's steadier ground. “Were you on my fire escape the other night?”

“I was in the neighborhood.”

“You apparently feel no shame on this.”

“I wanted to make sure you were okay then. I wasn't expecting you to notice.”

So apparently talking to himself in his bedroom is what got the devil interested enough to stalk him. Good to know. “You could have said hello then, saved us this whole conversation.”

“I didn't know what to say. I'm not sure what to say now.”

“You could say that you're done stalking me.”

He makes a thoughtful noise. “I'm not sure I am, and I don't like to lie. I'll stop if it upsets you that much, but I'd like … as I said, you're interesting. I'd like to know you.”

The devil may be human, but he doesn't know much about them. That's interesting, and Karen would probably find it interesting, and Foggy doesn't know if he's allowed to ask questions. “You could always happen to bump into me while I'm doing laundry or buying beer or getting coffee, man. The whole following-on-rooftops-while-I-walk-home thing isn't a great basis for friendship.”

“That's … unwise.”

“The friendship, or meeting me when you aren't dressed up like the villain for a kinky Bible play?”

“Both, I think.”

“Then why are you here talking to me?”

“I don't know.” Like that's a cue, he starts backing off into the shadows, like he's hoping to encourage Foggy into thinking he's disappearing when he's going to have to climb the building if he wants to continue either stalking Foggy across the city or fighting crime.

Foggy sighs. “I appreciate the honesty, man.”

“I told you you should be careful who you thank,” says the devil, and before Foggy can gear up a retort to that, there's the unmistakable sound of him making a jump and climbing up the building.

Foggy is halfway home (and not feeling like he's being watched) before he remembers that the devil wasn't the one who told him that. Matt from the coffee shop was.

There are a lot of things Foggy could do with the information he has. If he told Brett that the devil dropping criminals at the station is a man who uses the name Matt and pretends to be blind, the NYPD could make an arrest within days, especially if Foggy gives a description. If he told Karen the same thing, her career would be made and once again, Matt would be arrested, except Brett would be pissed at Foggy for not telling him first.

Logically, there's no reason to keep quiet, but that's exactly what Foggy does.

“You're looking shifty about something,” Marci says over lunch a few days later. “Did you screw up a case?”

Foggy considers being offended by that, but she sounds more hopeful than sympathetic, which is par for the course with Marci. “When do I ever screw up cases? Nothing to be shifty about, Marci, honestly.”

“Hm.” She taps her fingernails against the tabletop. She's wearing three rings just on that hand and he would bet any money they're steel instead of silver. Hell's Kitchen is glinting with metal. “See, normally you would make up a story. Something funny. Want to tell me that again, with more conviction?”

“It's Karen's story,” he offers. That's not technically a lie. “She's told me a little about it. I'm sort of freaking out. It's about the devil, and in case you hadn't noticed, people who get involved with him tend to end up in hospitals.”

“People who get on his bad side,” Marci corrects. “You didn't. You're fine. I'm surprised Karen hasn't badgered you into an interview.”

He's avoiding Karen, actually, because he's bad at lying to her and she really hates being lied to, so it's probably best to avoid all of that as much as possible. “I'm just so charming that vigilantes swoon in my general direction. It's really inconvenient, Tony Stark drops out of the sky to fall at my feet at least once a week.”

Marci relaxes, and the fact that she's letting him see it shows just how worried she was. Foggy doesn't keep a lot of secrets. Doesn't have many to keep, in general. “Next time he shows up, tell him I'm completely willing to be his mistress if he wants a kept woman. Or if Pepper Potts wants a kept woman. I would definitely sleep with her.”

Foggy laughs and lets her draw him off into safer waters, debating which one of them should get the cushy suite in Stark Tower and, eventually, talking over a few cases they want to consult each other on.

“You can tell me whatever it is,” she says once they've paid the bill. “I would keep your secrets if you need me to. I like knowing the gossip, not telling it.”

“Thanks, Marci. If there's ever any gossip to share with you, I'll make sure you're the first person in line.”

She kisses him on the cheek, a big smack that he's almost certain leaves a lipstick mark. “That's all I want, sweetie. Now come on, there's bleeding heart work for you to do back at the office.”

There's a knock on his living room window that night when he's watching television, and he didn't even feel watched first. Either his situational awareness is bad again or Matt decided to be proactive.

Foggy calls himself an idiot the whole time he opens the window, but he doesn't get out of the way to let his unexpected guest in. “Was it a mistake, or were you leaving breadcrumbs?” he asks, because it's not the first thing he's been thinking, but it's pretty high up the list.

“I didn't mean to do it, but I was glad I did when I realized.” Matt coughs. “May I come in?”

“I wouldn't have opened the window if I didn't figure you would be coming through it.” Foggy backs off, and Matt comes through the window, shuts and locks it after himself so politely that Foggy wants to laugh. He comes right past a salt barrier, and that confirms some things, even if it raises some questions in the process. “To what do I owe the honor?”

There's a long enough silence that Foggy turns away to start straightening things up before Matt answers. “I thought you might—I was visiting a friend near here, and I heard your—you knew I knew you live here already. You talked to me that time. I thought maybe it wouldn't surprise you if I visited.”

Foggy is beyond surprise at this point. Actually, he's worrying himself, how well he's taking all of this. “I've got questions.”

“A lot of people do.” Matt takes a step closer and stops when Foggy tries hard to steel himself not to retreat. “What are yours?”

“Why pretend to be blind?”

“Oh.” That's blank shock, as far as Foggy can tell, and then Matt is pulling his helmet off. He looks younger without the mask or the sunglasses, though part of that might be how messy his hair is, sticking up. “I am. You can—Cl—someone shined a light in my eyes to make sure. You could do that, if you don't believe me. I told you, I don't like lying.”

“And yet the evidence shows your fists finding a lot of people's faces like you can see them.” Matt fidgets, and Foggy sighs. “Sit down. Couch is to your right, the back is closer to you so you'll have to go around. Do you want a beer? I think I need to be at least a little bit drunk for this conversation.”

“No. Thank you.” Matt puts his hand on the couch before he walks around it and sits down, legs drawn up like he's a kid. Foggy tries not to think about what unspeakable things those boots have probably seen. “I can hear them. Sense where they are. Like … dolphins, I think. I saw a documentary when I was a kid.”

Foggy waits, but that's all the forthcoming explanation, and he lets it sit there while he pops the top on a bottle of beer and takes a long drink. “But you're human.”

“Yes.” Matt takes a deep breath. “But I've been … there. For a long time now. Since I was a kid. A few years after I was blinded. The past few months are the first time I've been back.”

“Jesus.” Matt flinches. Foggy takes another drink. “You escaped, or something?”

Matt shakes his head, and Foggy stops hiding behind his kitchen island and goes to one of the other chairs in his living room. He doesn't think he can handle sharing a couch with a vigilante tonight. “Call it a leave of absence.”

“For good behavior?”

Matt's mouth twists in a way Foggy can't begin to interpret. “Something like that. But I learned tricks there, from a—from one of them. He taught me how to use my other senses. They were stronger after the accident I was blinded in, but I didn't know how to use them. He showed me. I can hear ...” Matt tilts his head. “Your upstairs neighbors are talking about buying a fish. Someone else on this floor is doing dishes. Lots of people walking down on the street. Your heartbeat is going faster the longer I talk.”

Foggy can't decide which part of that he wants to respond to first, and ends up blurting “I'm pretty sure Sara and Taylor had to throw out four plants in the past six months because they can't keep them alive. They definitely shouldn't buy the fish.” Matt laughs, a sharp bark that surprises him as much as it surprises Foggy, and Foggy manages to get his thoughts together enough to say “Heartbeat?”

“I told you my senses were stronger.”

“There's stronger and then there's listening to someone's heartbeat. Jesus.” Foggy takes a second to breathe. “I guess that explains why you can fight people even if you can't see them. You aren't … you aren't Fair Folk, though? Just trained by them?”

“Not just trained, but yes, I'm as human as you. They took me when my father died. They'd had their eyes on me ever since I lost mine, but they couldn't take me while he was still protecting me.”

“What's it like there?”

Matt shrugs one-shouldered. “I can't exactly describe you the sights. Besides, I'm here now, I don't want to talk about it there.”

“Yeah, you're on your leave of absence, during which you apparently want to fight crime.”

“I remember what a mess the human world is. I remembered all those years. I wanted to help.”

“Helping is doing what I do, or doing what the police do. I'm not sure I know or want to know what you're doing, but I wouldn't call it helping.”

“I would. I saved your life.”

“Come on, big shot. My wallet, maybe. And potentially my dignity.” Foggy takes another drink of his beer. He wants about four more, but he also wants his wits sharp. He just needs to think of this as a cross-examination. “Why am I more interesting than anyone else? You tracked me down before you saved me from those muggers. I'm pretty sure it wasn't chance, us meeting at that coffee shop.”

“No, but part of that is someone else's secret.” Matt frowns, thinking around that. “I overheard you talking to someone. I was curious. And you're ...” He stops, shrugs. “I like you.”

“Overheard me talking to who? Probably a lot of people, I guess, if you can hear my heartbeat at ten paces, but who originally?”

“I said it's someone else's secret.” Matt frowns, tugging at one of his gloves. Up close, Foggy can't tell if whatever he's wearing is man-made or fey-made. “But maybe she wouldn't mind. I think she trusts you. And it's a lot more than ten paces.”

“Who trusts me? And how much more than ten paces?”

“Once I've heard someone's heart, know what to listen for, anywhere in a building. Sometimes farther. It's useful. I can usually tell when people are lying, or in danger or causing it.” Matt clearly can't hear Foggy's heartbeat that well if he can't hear it breaking out into a sprint of embarrassment and panic, because he continues blithely on. “And Claire. Your neighbor. I was here because I was hurt and she was helping me, she does that sometimes.”

Of course it's Claire. Foggy takes a minute to collect himself about the heartbeat thing, which is really freaky, and tries to figure out where to go from there. “You can't really tell when people are lying from their heartbeats. Not the specific you, I mean. People in general.”

“You can make a guess. A good one.” Matt fidgets with his gloves some more, still frowning. “I upset you.”

“No shit you did, maybe you don't remember because you got kidnapped at an impressionable age, but people like their privacy. Also, I'm a lawyer, and you can't base innocence or guilt on someone's heartbeat. It's not admissible.”

That gets a smile, though it isn't a particularly happy one. “I'm not admitting evidence, Foggy.”

“Yeah, I get that.” Foggy finishes his beer and puts the bottle down with a decisive clink. Matt winces a little. “So, apparently you find me interesting because we disagree on everything?”

“I find you interesting for a lot of reasons.” Matt cocks his head, and then his spine straightens and he stops fidgeting, listening to something like his life depends on it even though Foggy can't hear a thing. “I have to go. I'll—I'll come back, if you want me to.”

Foggy snorts. “Or you'll lurk on my fire escape and listen to my heart.”

Matt's suddenly on his feet, right in Foggy's space, grabbing for his hand and missing it before he catches it, gripping on tight. His gloves are a little rough to the touch. “If you tell me you don't want me here, I won't come back. I won't bother you. Just say I shouldn't, and I'll try not to listen, I'll try not to … anything.”

Foggy usually has a very healthy sense of self-preservation, and he knows the smart choice is to tell Matt to get the hell out and possibly get out of Hell's Kitchen too, just get out in general. Instead he says “I don't know. Knock again sometime. I'm not sure if I'll let you in, full disclosure, but I don't know. I might. You're interesting too.”

Matt beams like the sun coming out, and then he bends to kiss Foggy's hand and lets go before Foggy can figure out what the hell to do with that, grabs his helmet and goes back out the window before Foggy can even manage words.

That's probably good. He has no idea what he would say.

“I think we should probably have a discussion,” Foggy says the next evening, when he can finally corner Claire in her apartment.

She crosses her arms, but she doesn't look surprised, or particularly upset. “About my visitor? Don't blame me for anything he does, I just make sure he doesn't die.”

“Can I come in there so we can talk about it? Because I have questions.”

“I don't have a lot of answers,” she warns, but she steps out of his way and gestures him into her apartment. “But I knew he was interested in you. I didn't know he was in my apartment that night we talked, but I was bringing some supplies in case he came back. I like to be prepared. Shut that door, would you? Do you want a beer?”

“Where this subject is concerned, always.” Foggy hesitates. Now that he has her willing to answer a few questions, he doesn't know what he wants to start with, so he hovers while she takes the tops off two beers, waits until she flicks her eyes over at her couch. It's probably all the invitation he's going to get. “So when we talked, you already knew he was human.”

“I put the steel through his arm myself, giving him stitches,” she agrees. “It answered the question pretty neatly.”

“Did he tell you why he's doing this?”

Claire hums and sits down next to him. “Not really. He feels like he has to, like he's good at it.”

“Why would he have to? He left the fair folk's realm to come here and punch criminals, he calls it a leave of absence. Why would they let him go, and why would he choose to come here and hunt people down?”

“I'm not going to guess at their motives, and Matt doesn't talk about that.” She takes a drink of her beer. Foggy is going to have to buy her some, if she's going to get stuck doing medical care for vigilantes. He can't sew people up, but he can definitely buy beer. “He was from here. Spent his childhood in Hell's Kitchen before his father died, lived a pretty rough life but he loved it. I think he thinks he's making it better. I'm not sure I disagree.”

Foggy connects a few dots then, remembers a news story he was excited about when he was a kid, a local boy who saved a man's life and got blinded in an accident. Funny how none of the papers reported his dad going missing or him disappearing. It would have been easier to put it all together. “You think all that violence, all that acting outside the law, you think it's helping?”

“I'm not a lawyer, Foggy. I'm a nurse. And sure, I have to patch up a lot of people thanks to him. A lot of people handcuffed to beds before they get hauled to the courthouse where people like you can try and deal with them. And he's not healthy. No one who decides to do something like this seriously is, but he wants to do good, and I think he's doing some.”

Brett wouldn't agree. Karen would. Marci, judging by her reactions to some of Hogarth's more interesting cases, finds the whole situation entertaining but refuses to take a moral stance on it. Foggy's not sure where he comes down on it these days. He really doesn't like having to reexamine his moral code. That, he supposes, is what beer is for. “Yeah, I wouldn't exactly describe his choices as healthy.” He raises his voice a little. “And I stand by that, if you can hear me.”

“I don't know if I'll ever be used to the senses. He said something about the smell of my detergent the first night, and how I obviously worked at a hospital even though I'd taken a shower right before I pulled him out of our dumpster.”

Foggy didn't even think about the scent thing, and now he has a whole host of new things to feel weird about. Some lawyer he is. Matt only talked about sound, Foggy was the one who dropped the ball not bringing the rest of it up. “Great, we've got a superpowered Sherlock Holmes who was raised by wolves, glad to know he can smell exactly when I last washed my hair. Which was this morning, for the record, the way I phrased that said damning things about my personal hygiene.”

Claire laughs. “I think sometimes he's been away so long he forgets it isn't normal, and sometimes I think he wants to rub my nose in it, and sometimes I think it's just his way to feel a little less lonely, looming around and telling us things like this till we seem sufficiently impressed.”

“I can't imagine you ever being sufficiently impressed with anyone.”

“Thanks.” She doesn't seem particularly unhappy about it, despite the sarcasm. “He needs people. That's not how they do things, across the border, so maybe he forgot people don't do well without anyone else on their side. I'm doing my best, but he wanted more than I could do. It's good he's reaching out to you too. Maybe he'll keep doing it.”

“Until his leave of absence is over.”

“Yeah, I'm worried about that too. He hasn't told me how long it is, or why he got it. We would have heard about it if the people the Fair Folk steal got a sabbatical every once in a while. He must have a friend over there on his side.”

“If they have friends.” That strikes him as sad, now that he says it, but then again, everything about Matt is sad if he examines it too closely. He isn't exactly a happy story. People with happy stories don't do what Matt is doing. “I'm not qualified for this.”

Claire reaches across the space between them and clinks her bottle against his before taking a long drink. He follows suit. “I don't think there's anyone qualified for this.”

Foggy still has several dozen questions, but they seem less important than sitting in silence on Claire's couch, listening to the sounds of the city outside her window, and finishing his beer. She seems to agree.

Matt falls into step with him on the street a few days later. Out of costume, thank God, because it's high noon in New York and Foggy is just leaving the office for his lunch hour.

“For the record, if anyone is watching it looks really suspicious when the blind guy can pick me out of a crowd,” Foggy says when Matt doesn't seem to have anything to say. The high collar on his jacket is doing a really bad job of hiding a bright bruise on his jaw. “To what do I owe the honor?”

“Can I take your arm? I used to do it with my father, and it helps in crowds. Just don't walk me into traffic.”

“Sure,” says Foggy, because he has no idea how else to respond to that, and then Matt's hand settles at his elbow, grip just a little too tight.

“I thought you might be a little more comfortable this way,” says Matt, and it takes Foggy a second to remember that he asked a question. “In public, without my costume on. Was I wrong?”

Foggy considers that. On one hand, even if Matt's still kind of stalking him, at least he's not showing up at Foggy's window. On the other hand, it's hard to talk about everything they've got to talk about in public. New Yorkers will ignore pretty much everything a stranger near them is saying, but that doesn't mean they don't hear it. “I guess not, if we're just getting to know each other as people and not talking about any of the big issues.”

Matt's smile is heartbreaking and huge and fades at pretty much the exact second that Foggy decides he should always be smiling like that. He's in trouble. “I don't know how much of me there is to get to know. I'm not very good at being human. I've been there for so long—”

“That doesn't make you not human. It just means you're a human I maybe have less in common with than most. You don't even know your favorite muffin flavor.”

“Orange pineapple,” says Matt, determined and fast. “I've been trying all the different kinds I've been able to find lately. And I like tea better than coffee. Green tea, mostly. I never had the chance to find that out before, my father didn't want me to have caffeine and then … I didn't want or need stimulants over there. Or muffins.”

Foggy is not usually a violent person, but he wants to strangle a whole world right now. Or sue it, but even if humans have made contact and nominal alliances with the Courts they aren't prone to paying attention to the human judicial system. “Muffins are just the beginning, buddy,” he manages, as light as he can. His heartbeat is probably giving him away, but that is not his chief concern right now. “There's a whole amazing world of baked goods out there. Croissants and danishes and cupcakes and tarts.”

“I definitely remember cupcakes,” says Matt, with the edge of a smirk. “Are you going to list off everything I might have missed?”

“You probably don't remember artisan cupcake shops on every corner.”

“How are cupcakes artisan?”

“That's everyone's question. Usually it just means they're expensive.” There isn't much else to say on that subject, but it reminds Foggy of a different one. “Speaking of which, this is definitely not my business, but how are you affording New York? You aren't sleeping rough, are you? You're too clean for that, but unless you're paying for something with false gold ...”

“That draws too much attention,” Matt says easily. “There's … someone over there, she's fond of me. She's the reason I'm here at all, she gave me leave to come and stay for a while. You might call her a patron, and she thinks everything I'm doing here is silly, but she's willing to let me do it. And pay for it. She has an apartment. It's a nice one, from what I can tell.”

“So you just had to ask, and she let you come?”

Matt pauses long enough to make Foggy really worried about whatever is going to come out of his mouth next. “She … I won't say she owed me, that isn't how it works. But she felt I deserve some kind of reward, or happiness. So she gave me a little time here.”

“How little time?”

“Enough time to make a difference, I hope.” Matt's smile is bright and definitely fake. “We don't have to talk about that now, though. You should tell me about you. I can only find out so much without you telling me.”

Foggy knows how to go for the jugular, and he even wants to do it a little this time. That was an obvious evasion, and maybe Foggy doesn't have the right to the answer, but he thinks whatever Matt is talking around is important. To him, to whatever he's doing in a costume at night, to something. Foggy shouldn't back off. “What do you want to know?” he asks, and tries not to feel too happy when Matt relaxes.

“Anything. Why you want to be a lawyer, your family, your favorite kind of muffin. I don't know what questions to ask.”

Matt is definitely playing him with the pitiful expression, tempting him away from dangerous waters, but Foggy lets himself be tempted. He's not convinced Matt is his problem yet, and it's good to walk around on his lunch hour with a handsome man and talk about this and that, nothing serious, buying Matt a burrito from a food truck and watching him beam the whole time he's making a mess of himself.

“You look happy,” Marci says, insultingly suspicious, when Foggy gets back to the office five minutes late from lunch. “Did you get a lunchtime quickie?”

“You wish, but there's no salacious gossip for you today, Marci. I just had a very good lunch. Now, if you'll excuse me, some of us are partners with lots of high-profile cases to deal with.”

Marci doesn't look happy when she leaves, and it doesn't take Foggy long to start realizing how screwed he is once she's gone, because Matt did make him happy, and Matt's on a leave of absence, not staying forever. Foggy can't get attached.

Claire shows up at his apartment door at ten o'clock a few days later and Foggy almost has a heart attack before she holds up her hands. “He's okay. But he's in my apartment and I think he wants to see you, and I'm not letting him climb across the fire escape or bleed in our hallway, so I thought I would bring you to him instead.”

“You and I have really different definitions of okay, if yours includes a state where he would be dripping blood down the hallway.”

“Head wound. No concussion, just a cut, but they always bleed, and he just commented for the third time about how you're home watching the game and you must have thought something was funny on your phone, so I'm bringing you over so he'll shut up.”

“You know, in a fair universe, you and I would be married and not dealing with any of this shit,” says Foggy, but he's already grabbing his keys off his counter.

Claire just laughs at him. “We're both magnets for trouble. I wouldn't like our odds.”

When they get to Claire's place, Matt is sitting on her couch looking sullen with a towel pressed to his head. “I said she shouldn't bother you,” he says the instant the door shuts.

“Hey, Matt, how are you? I hear you were listening to me watch the game, so you know we were losing pretty badly. Actually kind of a relief to come tend to your sickbed.” Foggy turns to Claire. “Jesus, you weren't kidding, he's bleeding a lot. Does he need stitches?”

“No,” they both say at once, and Matt must feel the power of the glare Claire is turning on him because he shuts up and lets her continue. “But a little less luck and he would need a morgue. Is the bleeding slowing down, Matt?”

He looks even more sullen, and it would be funny if Foggy didn't kind of want to have a heart attack from the way he looks sitting there pale and covered in blood and halfway out of his costume. He's scarred up, and not all of them are recent, and Foggy hates the whole of fairyland. “Yes. I think it will be done soon.”

“Good. Stay still.” She turns to Foggy. “You entertain him, I'm going to clean up and maybe consider a drink so I can forget that this is my life.”

“I don't need entertaining,” Matt says mutinously, and Foggy goes to join him on the couch, because he's having alarming urges to make Matt tea and hug him, but at least he can go over and keep him company. “Hello, Foggy. I'm sorry Claire bothered you.”

“And I'm sorry you bothered Claire. What happened?”

Matt frowns, but Claire turns the sink on in her kitchen and calls “Biker with a knife, apparently,” to Foggy. “At least if it was steel they'll stop saying he's from across the border. That would get attention from the courts sooner or later.”

Foggy thinks about Matt's patron and whatever he was talking around the other day. If they don't already know Matt's here, making trouble they get associated with, Foggy would be very surprised. “How do you manage to get stabbed in the head, buddy? Don't you have armor to prevent that?”

“He got a lucky shot. It doesn't matter.” Matt raises his voice. “I think it's stopped.”

“Keep it there a few more minutes,” Claire calls back. Foggy's nose isn't as sensitive as Matt's, but the whole apartment is starting to smell like antiseptic soap.

Matt returns to sulking. “I didn't mean to interrupt your night, Foggy. I'm sorry.”

Foggy considers complaining more about getting summoned to entertain Matt when he's made poor decisions, but the television wasn't exactly riveting. “I hope you apologized to Claire first. She's the one putting her degree to really illegal use. I'm just breaking the law passively.” Neither of them seems to have much to say to that, and Claire is still busy in the kitchen, probably making a point of it, so Foggy sighs and turns back to Matt. “Do you want me to tell you more about why I went into the law? I got cut off by the end of my lunch break the other day.”

Matt straightens up, smiling a little. “Please. You were going to tell me how you ended up working with—with people like me.”

Nobody's quite like Matt, but Foggy knows what he means, anyway. “Mostly it's my friend Karen's fault—well, maybe my friend Brett's, Karen is his fault.” Once he gets started on the story, it's easy to continue, talking about Karen finding Ben and the Bulletin, encouraging Foggy to take on cases connected to her stories until Hogarth came knocking on his door, tipped off by Marci and the papers, offering him junior partner within three years and senior within ten for applying the reputation he was starting to build for high-profile bleeding-heart cases to giving her firm some good press, and then moving the timeline up when their contract-work superhero decided she didn't hate him.

“Who's she?” Matt asks when Foggy gets to that part of it.

“Private investigator, name of Jones, she is a completely different story and we're not getting into it right now,” says Foggy, and ignores Claire fumbling a dish in the kitchen. Claire clearly gets involved in every bad idea in the city. He has to respect her for that.

“Take the towel off, Matt,” Claire says, coming back into the room drying her hands off, and Foggy falls silent while Matt does so and Claire makes sure he's not bleeding. “I'm going to clean you up and give you a bandage, but it's not a good place for stitches and it's not deep enough that you really need them. Especially not if you're careful.”

Matt frowns, and Foggy hadn't realized he'd stopped in the first place, started smiling somewhere in the middle of Foggy's monologue. “I don't have the time to be careful.”

“That's only a valid argument if you're going to tell us why you don't have time,” Foggy says, and Claire shoots him a brief smile over Matt's shoulder.

“I can't.”

“Can you tell us how much time you have?” Matt purses his lips and shakes his head, looking miserable. Foggy sighs. “Then you've got to be careful in however much time you've got, no matter what the reason is. I don't want you dead.”

Matt chokes on something bearing a resemblance to a laugh, which is the opposite of comforting, but he doesn't say anything but “I'll try.”

“You're as patched up as you're going to get,” says Claire. “Don't ruin my work, Matt.”

Claire, when Foggy looks over at her, looks exhausted, shadows around her eyes and frown pulling at her mouth. “You should get some sleep, Claire. No one else is coming home at this hour of the night, I'll take Matt over to my place and get the rest of the blood off him before I send him home.”

For a second, he thinks one or both of them is going to say no, but then Claire nods and Matt smiles and Foggy stands up, because that's the closest thing to encouragement he's going to get. “If he starts deteriorating, wake me up,” says Claire. “It's my night off, I'm not on until late tomorrow so I can help if you need me to.”

“Thank you. Matt, buddy, come on, I'm going to show you what it's like to enter an apartment through the door. It will be a new and different experience for you.”

Matt looks like he wants to object, but he takes Foggy's outstretched hand and groans a little as Foggy pulls him upright, and he leans into Foggy's side the way he did when they were walking the other day. Claire gives Foggy a sharp look when she sees how easily he accommodates Matt's weight, steering away from one of Claire's chairs, but he can't explain everything right now. “Stay safe, Foggy,” she says, nodding like she understands that without him having to say it. “Stay alive, Matt.”

“We're working on it,” says Foggy, because Matt's just looking stricken, and the more Foggy finds out about whatever he's in the city for, whatever reason he was given a leave of absence, the worse he feels.

“Thank you, Claire,” says Matt, way too earnest, and he lets Foggy shepherd him out of her apartment and into the hallway.

By the time they get to Foggy's apartment, Matt pretending that he isn't leaning on Foggy the whole way, silence has settled over them the way it sometimes does over a bad blind date or a talk with a distant cousin. Foggy lets it spin out, sits Matt down on his couch and goes to fill a bowl with water and find a washcloth he doesn't care about ruining to clean up the rest of the blood.

“I don't understand why you're doing any of this,” Matt blurts almost the second a wet cloth touches his skin, like that was some kind of cue, and Foggy pauses, dripping water all over Matt's shoulder while he waits. “Why you're letting me do any of it. Claire, I think it's a matter of honor with her to make sure I'm still alive when she's done with me, after she saved me the first time. You, I don't know. I … I'm grateful, but none of this is normal. I know enough to know that. You shouldn't be letting me.”

“Watch who you say you're grateful to, some people will take advantage of that,” says Foggy, on automatic, and starts working again. It buys some time. “Also, morally, it's not my responsibility to let you or not let you do things, it's your responsibility to do or not do them.”

“But you're letting me.”

Foggy sighs. “I like you, Matt. As a person. My best friends are a secretary-turned-reporter on a crusade against corruption and government secrets and a fellow lawyer who might actually be a great white shark in human form, clearly I don't have wise taste in people.”

“Karen and Marci,” Matt says, which is actually a relief, since Foggy was talking about them some the other day. Though probably he remembers it more from overhearing. “And they're … they're safer than I am.”

“Karen is always selling me on mob cases and last year I almost got kidnapped and killed taking down a shady businessman who was running the city thanks to her, so I would argue that point.”

“The best case scenario is that I leave and you never see me again, Foggy,” Matt says, stilling his hands, grabbing them both even though it means they're holding the bloody washcloth between them, probably dripping onto Foggy's couch cushions. “You understand that?”

“Do you mean tonight or whenever your leave of absence is over?”

“Either one. I'm going to hurt you. Not on purpose, I would never hurt you on purpose, but you'll get hurt, if you don't send me away.”

Foggy knows that. People don't end up happy in stories like Matt's. They end up dead, or lonely, or hurt, or waking up gasping with nightmares for years. Claire might be safe. Foggy is getting pulled in deeper than he should. He squeezes Matt's hands, and doesn't look down to see if there's blood on his couch. “You could just tell me. I'm good at coming up with solutions, finding ways out of things. I'm a defense lawyer. Tell me, and I'll help.”

Matt's mouth twists up, and then he's leaning forward, tipping his head against Foggy's shoulder, tilting it so the bloody part isn't touching Foggy's shirt. “I can't ask you to do that. But thank you for offering.”

“What did I just say about thanking me?”

“Thank you,” says Matt again, more firmly, and pulls away.

Neither of them says a word the whole time Foggy finishes cleaning Matt up, and Foggy can't say he's surprised when Matt excuses himself just a few minutes later and goes out the window back out into the night.

Foggy thinks about knocking on Claire's door and asking if she knows what Matt isn't saying, but he sits in his living room instead, and it's a long time before he can pretend that he's going to get any sleep.

“I'll pay for the gentleman behind me too,” says the woman ahead of Foggy when he's getting his coffee the next morning, and Foggy has a terrible moment of deja vu. “What can I get for you?”

“Large iced mocha,” says Foggy, mostly on a whim, and smiles at the barista when he looks a little suspicious at them. “You sound like you're from out of town.”

She turns around, and she's a sharp kind of beautiful, the kind that would be terrifying if anything could be terrifying at a sleepy coffee shop on a sunny early morning. Between that and her accent, Foggy has a few theories about where she's from. “It's only polite for the guest to make a little present for the host.”

“I'm pretty sure it's supposed to be the opposite.”

She laughs. “Well, I won't quibble if you won't.” She turns back to the barista. “Get the man a brownie as well, I hate eating alone and he looks like a man who appreciates the finer things.” Back to Foggy. “It's not an appropriate time of day for wine, unfortunately.”

“Brownies are finer than wine.”

“Sacrilege,” she says, and beams at the barista the whole time she pays him. “Aren't you going to thank me?”

Definitely Matt-connected. It's about even odds whether she's an enemy or the patron Matt mentioned, though the possibility occurs to Foggy that she might be both. “You're very generous,” he says, which he hopes doesn't count as a thank you. Judging from the way her eyebrows rise as she smiles, he's probably on the right track. “Also, you made a good choice, the brownies here are great. I'm Foggy, by the way.”

She laughs, like that's funny. “I'm Elektra. It's a pleasure, Foggy.”

The barista hands over their drinks like that's some kind of cue, and when Elektra jerks her head in the direction of a free corner table, Foggy doesn't bother arguing. He can be a little late. That's the good thing about being a partner and not an associate. “So,” he says when she just takes a sip of her coffee and looks at him expectantly. “I suspect we have an acquaintance in common.”

“Matthew,” she says, and the full name is jarring. Humans aren't bound by their full names the same way the Fair Folk are, but that doesn't make Foggy less nervous. Chances are she knows the last name too, and the middle if there is one. “He's a companion of mine. I allowed him a vacation, and he seems to be spending some of it with you.”

“If you're going to ask why, I'm afraid I don't have an answer for you. I don't have an answer for me.” Foggy sighs and takes a sip of his mocha even though it feels like signing over his soul. “Which is too bad, because I might use the information to bargain for an answer about why exactly he's getting a vacation.”

Elektra laughs. “That's easy, Foggy. He's doing me a favor, and I don't like being beholden to anyone.”

“Must be some favor.”

“Now that's his secret. You won't win it from me so easily.” She taps her fingers against the table a few times. “It's beautiful there, you know. And he learned such things—you can't imagine everything he learned, everything good that happened to him. He's one of our best, our brightest, for all he was born human. You could come back with him, when he comes.”

“Even if I knew Matt well enough to want to follow him anywhere like that, to the detriment of the home I've been building here for my whole life, I don't trust you as far as I can throw you.”

She tuts at him. “Disappointing. I'm concerned about Matthew, you know. I do love him, in my way, and he's loved me. I like to see him happy. You make him happy.”

Foggy starts eating his brownie, mostly to buy himself some time. “I don't know what you want out of this conversation,” he finally says. Honesty is the best policy, after all.

“To know you. To get some idea of how you feel about Matthew. I might just be nosy.”

“You're definitely nosy.” Elektra laughs, and Foggy toasts her with his coffee. “And unless you're going to ask me something or tell me something, I'm going to finish this on the move. Some of us have to work.”

Elektra leans back in her seat, suddenly serious. “Lawyers are good at finding loopholes, I think. I'm not ignorant of human customs, and I've heard that to squirm out of a contract, you find a lawyer.”

That opens up a pit in Foggy's stomach. “And what kind of contract do you need to squirm out of? I don't exactly have encyclopedic knowledge of interrealm law, so I don't know how much help I would be.”

“Call it idle curiosity. I'll let you get to work, Mr. Nelson.”

Foggy doesn't let himself flinch. Of course she did her research before she tracked him down, but knowing his true name isn't going to do her any good. Foggy isn't an interesting prospect to be spirited away, never has been. He's as solidly human as they come, and the only interest she has in him is the interest she has in Matt. “If you know anyone who needs legal counsel, Elektra, I'm sure you can find me.”

She laughs again. “You know, I believe I can.”

Foggy keeps one hand in his pocket, turning the iron nail over and over, until he gets to the office.

“I think I have an apology to make to you,” Matt says at his window that night.

“It's early, you can't have fought much crime yet,” Foggy says, letting him in. “Is it an urgent apology? Do apologies count like thanks? Do you owe me a favor if you've done something to be sorry for?”

Matt's mouth quirks. “You don't need to bargain for favors from me. I think I've made that clear.”

Foggy has been trying not to think about his insistent thanks, but it's a fair point. “Then can I spend one on an explanation?”

Matt tenses. “For what?”

For whatever made him freeze up like that. “Elektra,” he says, which is the next best thing and more specific. “Whatever you can safely tell me about who she is and why she's here would be helpful.”

Matt wavers where he stands for long enough that Foggy thinks he's going to go right out the window again, but then he moves around Foggy, goes to sit on the couch, pushes his helmet off and waits until Foggy joins him. “She's a queen,” he says, once Foggy is settled. “There are two courts. You might know that. Summer and Winter.” Foggy nods. “She was born in Winter but raised in Summer, her—our teacher's attempt at uniting the courts, or maybe defeating Winter. Neither of us asked him when she banished him. But she's a queen of the Summer Court these days. She's the one who let me come here.”

“So a queen bought my coffee this morning. That's new and different. I should introduce her to Marci sometime, I think both of them would end up seething.”

“What did she want with you?” Matt asks, quiet. He's fidgeting with a loose thread on one of Foggy's couch pillows.

“Your guess is as good as mine. I think she was checking in on you.” Foggy sighs. “She asked me if lawyers are good at weaseling out of contracts.” Matt freezes. “So it might have something to do with the secret you're keeping about why you're allowed to be here and why you're so determined to make a difference in a short time.”

Matt curls in on himself, head bowed, looks away. He's got no clue how much he's telling Foggy just with that, and Foggy is having more and more trouble pretending that it doesn't make him feel protective. Getting protective of a vigilante who's only going to be leaving soon seems like one of his worse ideas. “I can't.”

“You can't tell me the secret?” Matt nods. “Can't in the sense that you're not able, or is that just a strong won't?”

The fact that Matt has to hesitate pretty much answers that question, but Matt still sets his jaw and straightens up when he says “Fine, I won't. It's a secret that could hurt you. I've involved you too much already, and if you don't know, then you'll be safer.”

Foggy sighs and settles better on the couch, looks away from Matt so he can pull his thoughts together. “You know, a lot of people say they're keeping secrets to protect other people. But I've seen what secrets like that can do, after a while. It ruins relationships, puts people in danger, gets them arrested or hurt, and the only thing is helps is the person keeping the secret, for a little while. Is it going to help you to keep this secret?”

“Yes,” says Matt, but it turns out he's a bad liar. That's one thing he couldn't learn from whoever taught him. It's the biggest weakness besides iron the Fair Folk have, the compulsion to tell the truth. “Yes,” he says again, after a few seconds of silence, and this time it sounds like less of a lie. “I think you're more likely to get hurt if I tell you.”

“And Claire? Is she in danger from whatever this is too?”

Matt shifts, and Foggy looks back at him. He's got his head tilted like he's listening to something, maybe Claire in her apartment and maybe the empty space of it. Foggy is going to have to figure out her work schedule if they're going to be dealing with Matt together. “I don't think so. I think she wants to help me but she wants to keep safe, too.”

“And I don't?”

“Of course you do. And I want to keep you that way. But she drew a line, before I ever talked to you. She would help me, patch me up, but that's all. That's why Elektra didn't visit her, but she did you.”

“I've got a healthy self-preservation instinct. I can keep myself out of danger if you can let me know what to watch out for.”

“You're a very good person.” Matt's voice is small, a little scared. “I don't want to take the risk.”

Foggy stands up, because he may be a good person, but he's not good enough to stay patient when Matt's being stubborn. “Elektra already came to visit me. I'm already involved. Why is she interested in getting out of contracts?”

“Foggy, I can't. Either you'll get involved and you'll get hurt, or you'll refuse and I'll ...”

Matt cuts himself off, but Foggy can extrapolate the end of that sentence. “Or I'll refuse and you'll get hurt. You could try me and ask. Like you said, I could refuse. I don't love the idea of you getting hurt, but I've only known you for a few weeks and you're practically my stalker. You could tell me, and I could make sure I don't get hurt.” Neither of them believes that, Foggy is sure, but it's worth a shot to say it, and at least now he knows how stupidly involved he is. “Can you at least tell me how long we've got before this all comes to a head?”

Matt swallows a few times. “A few weeks.”

“So there's time to think about it.”

“I don't need to—”

“But I do.”

Matt catches his hand, squeezes it tight. “Please don't.”

He's got a hundred thousand tells, and Foggy wants to tell him so, but he doesn't know if he wants to. Half the instinct to tell Matt to shut it, Foggy will hurt himself for Matt's sake if he wants to, is just him being contrary, thinking about it because Matt says he shouldn't. It's the other half Foggy is worried about. “Did Elektra come visit you too?” he asks instead.

“She said she saw you.” Matt relaxes a little and sways in Foggy's direction while he does it. Foggy lets him, and they end up with their shoulders pressed together. “She wanted me to know she knows what I'm doing here. She thinks it's all stupid, that I should be using this time up on drugs, or sex. There's plenty of that kind of thing across the border.”

“What's it like there?” It's not the question Foggy wants answered, but he's curious, and he's willing to wait. Getting Matt used to answering questions he asks could come in handy.

“I can't tell you what it looks like,” says Matt with a wry smile. “I can tell you that the air is thinner, and their hearts sound wrong, even though I've been there longer than I was here. It never smells like iron or steel or any of the things that can be made from them, except in the traces of blood from people like me, who were taken. It smells good, though. Like someone is cooking something delicious not too far away.” He pauses. “The people aren't very kind. Humans are … pets, maybe. They're nice if it entertains them, but Elektra and Stick were the only ones to act like I was a person.”

“That sounds shitty. I'm sorry.”

“It wasn't all bad. They know so much—they live so long. And they used to travel here a lot more than they do now. They have music that sounds nothing like it does here, but they love ours too, they coax musicians over when they can and beg artists and writers to come, anything creative to augment their own.”

“No wonder they don't take a lot of lawyers. We make everything prosaic.” And because he can't resist needling Matt a little, he adds “And apparently we're too good at weaseling out of the kinds of contracts they like.”

Matt frowns, but he squeezes Foggy's hand again. “I don't think you're prosaic at all. You're always interesting.”

Foggy leans more weight into Matt's shoulder until his head is tucked against Matt's. It's been a long day, and Matt doesn't seem to mind, considering how quick he turns his face so he can take a deep inhale of Foggy's hair. “So what does the music sound like?” Foggy asks. When they stop talking Matt is going to go out and put himself in danger again. They can talk about safe things for a while. “Their music.”

It turns out Matt can't carry a tune, but Foggy still sits and listens to his tuneless humming for a long time.

Matt's the one to stop, after a while, stiffening up, head tilting like he's listening. “You have to go,” Foggy says for him. “I'll probably see you soon. Stay safe.”

“I'll try.”

That's more than Foggy expects from him at this point, and that's what makes Foggy get up off the couch when Matt does. Matt reaches for his helmet, but Foggy intercepts him, takes control of the inevitable and kisses him. It's just a little kiss, but it still leaves Matt looking broken-open and so happy it's almost embarrassing. Foggy hands him his helmet, and Matt darts in to press a fervent kiss that lands on his hair before he runs out of the apartment.

It's a terrible idea, all of it, but that doesn't mean Foggy regrets it.

“Page is here,” says Marci at his office door.

Foggy raises his eyebrows. Karen doesn't come to the office often, and almost never without warning. She claims not to like the corporate atmosphere after her old job, but mostly he thinks she and Hogarth have reached a mutual non-aggression pact where Karen doesn't harass Hogarth's clients and Hogarth doesn't sue her. “Did she say why?”

“She didn't ask,” says Karen over Marci's shoulder, and shoulders her out of the way.

Marci looks like an offended leopard who's seriously considering acting on that offense, but she glances over at Foggy and sighs. “Remember we've got a three o'clock, Foggy Bear. And if you're curious, Page, my answer is no comment.”

“Nice to see you too,” says Karen, and shuts Foggy's office door almost in Marci's face.

“One of these days she's going to hire a hit on you and she's sneaky so I'm not going to be able to stop it,” Foggy points out, for form's sake, and gestures her into his extra chair. “To what do I owe the honor?”

“I found a source with a comment on why there are so many border-crossers in the city right now,” she says, and leans forward. “We're waiting for confirmation, but there's no possible way to confirm it, so I don't know if it will end up in the paper.”

“And you wanted me to know? I don't think the office can help on this one, Karen.”

“There's a tithe to pay,” Karen blurts, and Foggy goes cold.

“You're going to have to explain that,” says Foggy, because the sense of impending terrible doom is one thing and actual facts are another.

Karen's all lit up like she is whenever there's a story she's getting to the bottom of, but she doesn't look happy, exactly, just satisfied. “There aren't just two realms. I know religions and science both posit almost infinite ones in theory, and that the Asgardian researchers confirm it, but there's another one, and their realm is sandwiched between two, ours and another one.”

“I'm guessing this realm is even less pleasant than ours.”

“It's their word for hell.” Foggy doesn't know what his face looks like, but it makes her brows draw together. “Are you okay?”

“This is just … not pleasant to think about.”

“It gets worse. The source says that that other realm, they can cross even more easily than the Fair Folk can, and to keep them from doing it, they send someone from there to hell every seven years. To keep them entertained.”

“And what does that have to do with them being here now?”

“Partly it's that they like to be away, when the border's going to be breached. Partly it's that ...” She lowers her voice. “The sacrifice is in town. They're watching over him.”

“The Devil of Hell's Kitchen.” Foggy likes denial, but he doesn't have that luxury right now. There's a certain kind of poetry to the Devil getting sent to hell, and it's the kind of poetry that the good people like. There's Matt, talking around a service that he's doing for Elektra, Queen of the Summer Court, that earned him time to come to the human world. There's Elektra talking about contracts and Matt talking about danger and Foggy feels sick.

“Yes,” says Karen, slow. “Foggy, is there something—this is off the record, okay? But if there's something you can tell me, that you need to tell someone, I can keep secrets.”

“I don't know anything for sure. I just have some guesses, and I don't like any of the guesses.” Matt is expecting to die, and he's here in New York walking on the edge of dying too soon every night because that's what he wants to do with his last days, clean up the city he left almost twenty years ago. That and, apparently, spend time with Foggy. Foggy doesn't know what to make of being the human equivalent of a condemned prisoner's last steak meal. “I know you can't tell me who your source is, but can you tell me which side of the border they're from?”

“The other one.” Karen still looks unhappy. “She touched a nail I had on my desk and it gave her a blister. That was convincing enough for me. And then what she said was convincing in general.”

She. Elektra is playing some kind of game. The real question is why she's talking to Foggy about weaseling out of contracts and giving his friend useful information when she has to be one of the ones who condemned Matt to die in the first place. “So why are you telling me, instead of trying to get confirmation with Ben? You said that's why you can't run it, but you never said why you were telling me.”

“Usually you're the one who tells me a story is too dangerous and I should make sure to stay safe, and I was unnerved enough to want to hear it. But now I think maybe you know something. And apparently you won't tell me, but I'll ask if you're okay.”

“I don't know.” That much he can be honest about. “But I'll definitely tell you to stay safe too. These people aren't good news, and they're trying to protect their home. They're going to get vicious if you get in the way, probably.”

“Are you involved?”

“More than I should be.”

She nods. “Okay. You know you can always call me if you need help and I'll be there. Off the record unless you tell me it's on.”

Foggy nods and lets himself have an exhale. Karen could probably piece together the whole story just from the look on his face, and he's glad she's not pushing or drawing conclusions out loud. “Thanks. And you can do the same thing. Although I'm pretty sure you already know that, one of these days you're going to win some huge award and I'm going to make you put me on retainer, all the legal trouble you get into.”

Karen laughs, relaxing. “Brett likes me more than he likes you, that does me more good than your legal counsel. Now, I'm going to take you out to lunch, and we're going to invite Marci, and we'll be good and we won't fight and we won't talk about any of it.”

“So that's what you were planning when you got her to bring you up instead of me. Good to know you're plotting against me.” He stands up and offers Karen his arm. “Come on, let's go get her.”

Foggy finishes two beers and gets halfway through his third before he can gear up his courage that night. “Matt,” he says, clear and conversational. “If you can hear me, I think we need to have a discussion.”

He's all the way finished with the third and giving serious thought to a fourth when there's a knock on his window. He opens it to Matt looking unhappy. His twisted-up mouth makes him look angry with his helmet on, but when he takes it off he just looks sad and a little lost. “You're angry at me.” His nose wrinkles. “And drunk.”

“I went to law school, it takes me more than a couple beers to get drunk.” Foggy tugs on Matt's arm until he goes over to the couch. “And I don't think you want to have this conversation while I'm sober. Or I don't, anyway.”

“Someone told you about the tithe.” That's quiet, and Foggy wants to yell at him for overplaying his hand, for saying it right out when Foggy could have been mad about a hundred other things. “Who?”

“Karen. But I'm almost certain Elektra was the one who told her.”

That baffles Matt, and Foggy lets him digest that for a moment. “Why would she—she was the one who allowed it, even if she was sorry about it. She knows there's not another choice, why would she try to give me an escape when she knows it would end everything?”

“There are lots of other choices,” says Foggy, and he means it to be gentle but it comes out snappish instead and he can't bring himself to regret it. “Sacrificing a human they stole from his world to save theirs seems like cheating.”

“I'm theirs by right. Common law, you could call it. And I'm human, but with differences that might interest the—they call them the eaters. You might call them demons.”

“That sounds extremely horrible.” Foggy wants to get up and get another beer, but Matt is curling into himself on the couch and he needs to remember this conversation later. “And it's still incredibly rude of them to choose you. They already ripped you away from your world.”

“I didn't have anything here, Foggy. A group foster home run by nuns who didn't know what to do with me, senses that overwhelmed me, memories of my father, and that was it. When they took me, I didn't mind. And they taught me, they've been my friends, everything I've had for years.”

“But you still leapt at the opportunity to come back home and deal out some justice when they decided that you're going to die.”

“I owe them.”

“You owe me, Matt. You keep saying that.”

Matt actually smiles at that, though it's more wry than happy. “I don't owe you as much. I have to do this, Foggy, and this conversation is exactly why I didn't tell you.”

“But Elektra wants me to know.” He has to circle back to that. “She wants me asking questions and finding loopholes, which means there's a loophole to find but she can't tell me about it directly.”

Matt shakes his head. “There's a loophole, there always is, but someone has to be sacrificed. I was chosen. Someone has to shoulder the duty.”

Foggy is abruptly exhausted, behind the simmering anger and anxiety he's been dealing with ever since Karen walked into his office. He could argue Matt in circles about duty and who owes who what all night, but it's not going to do what he wants, give him the right angle of attack. Elektra is willing to save Matt's life, so she must have a backup plan. Maybe he should find her and ask about it. “Can you at least tell me how long you have?”

“A few weeks. We'll travel right from the city to their gate.” Matt fidgets a little and then turns to face Foggy. “You kissed me the other night. Would you … can I kiss you?”

It's not the time, and Foggy wants to yell that at the top of his lungs, loud enough to call Claire over. Matt can't tell him he's going to die and then ask to kiss him. But then again, Foggy apparently doesn't have a lot of time to be mad in. “For the record, we need to work on your timing, but yeah. Dying man's request, and all.”

Matt makes a face. “I'd rather you kiss me because you want to.” He fidgets again. “I know it's—I'm not anything you would have asked for.”

“Jesus. Against my own better judgment, I am really into the idea of kissing you. The time limit is making me less enthusiastic, not willing to martyr myself, and the only reason I'm offering is because I plan to take Elektra up on her implied challenge to get you out of this. Does that address your concerns?”

“It raises new ones, but ...” Matt trails off and leans in. Foggy knows how to read that cue, and he lets Matt kiss him, kisses back until Matt pulls away. “I'll stay any night you want me to stay, but I think maybe I shouldn't stay tonight. You've been drinking, and you're angry with me, and you should … you should decide if this is what you want, even for a few weeks.”

Foggy wants to say something pithy about chivalry, but he's too exhausted to bother. “I'll think. And you think too, because if Elektra and I are both trying to get you out of this you might as well roll over and deal with it.”

Matt almost smiles. “I wish you wouldn't, but thank you. If that makes sense.”

“It does.” Foggy sighs and leans back. “If you need to go fight crime, do it. Keep an ear out for me, or find me in a day or so. Apparently we don't have time to waste.”

After a few seconds of silence, Matt kisses him, off-center on his forehead. “I'm sorry this is hurting you,” he says, like he has anything to be sorry about except being unwilling to save his own life. “And I'll find you soon.”

“Do. I'll probably want to yell at you some more.”

Miracle of miracles, Matt actually laughs a little at that while he puts his helmet back on, already slipping into being the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. “Thank you,” he says, and then he's out the window before Foggy can collect his response to that.

“Nelson, my office,” says Hogarth over the office phone the next afternoon. “There's a client who's specifically requesting you and I wanted to talk it over.”

“On my way,” says Foggy, bemused, and wonders why he's surprised when he enters Hogarth's office to find Elektra sitting in one of Hogarth's chairs wearing something designer and smiling like she's very pleased with the world. “Hello, I'm Foggy Nelson, Jeri tells me you'd like to work with me. What kind of help do you need?”

Elektra stands and extends her hand and even looks like she's expecting him to shake it instead of kiss it, which is pretty progressive for a queen. Foggy obliges her. “Elektra Natchios. I'm representing the business interests of my family in the city, setting up trusts and properties and so on, and it seemed prudent to have someone on retainer, so there's no trouble yet but I'd like to guard against it.”

“Real estate and property law aren't my specialties,” Foggy warns. “I'm a courtroom lawyer.”

“So Ms. Hogarth was just delicately telling me. However, I have faith in your motivation to do as I require, considering the retainer I'm willing to pay your firm and you, and you're very high-profile, Mr. Nelson. I've had occasion to read about some of your work against Mr. Wilson Fisk, and your involvement with Karen Page at the Bulletin and some of your work with these vigilantes one hears about.”

She thinks she's so funny. “It's not my area of expertise, but of course there's support staff here, and we're glad to have your patronage.” Hogarth gives him a funny look for that phrasing, but Foggy doesn't care much about that. He'd rather needle Elektra like she's needling him. “Jeri, do you mind if I take Ms. Natchios up to my office? I'll make sure to give her a list of other people in the firm whose expertise aligns better with her interests, but if she wants to talk to me, we'll talk.”

Hogarth looks like she has more to say about that, but Elektra links her arm companionably through Foggy's, avoiding his steel cufflink while she does. “Thank you, Ms. Hogarth, you've been most helpful. I hope to do more business with you in the future, me or my legal designates within the city.”

After an appropriately terrifying look in Foggy's direction, Hogarth gets through some pleasantries and lets Foggy take Elektra over to his office while he makes meaningless small talk about the firm and how he joined it.

“You're not really here for legal advice,” he says once his office door is shut. “Do you care to tell me what you're actually here for?”

“Some legal advice, actually, but there's a charming saying about birds and stones that comes to mind.” She sits down and folds her hands in her lap, smiling. “I have properties and trusts in the city—Matthew has been living off them, while he's here. Just in case, I'd like to make sure he continues to have access to them, and anything else he might want.”

“Just in case.” Foggy shuffles a few papers on his desk, mostly for something to do. “He doesn't want to be saved, but you want to save him, enough that you dropped an explanation in a friend's ear hoping she would tell me. That feels backwards. Don't you need him to be all self-sacrificing? Shouldn't you want him to die?”

“He was the most logical choice for a sacrifice, but he's not the only one. I have an alternative plan, but it's not one my court would have listened to.” She looks at him when she mentions her court, probably wondering how much Matt has told him, and he just raises his eyebrows in return and waits for more explanations. “I can't tell you what it is either, because you would tell Matthew, and much as he doesn't want to die, he'll feel as though he might as well have impaled anyone who goes across in his stead.”

“Are you going to tell me how to stop it?”

“Now that I can't do. It's not how it works. Your job is to get the answer out of him. He knows it.”

“He's not going to be wild about the idea of telling me even if I say you have other plans. Do you want me to save his life so he can resent me forever for it?”

Her mouth quirks. “I don't think he'll be angry with you. Maybe with me, but he's had weeks now to build a life here, to build the connections he was discouraged from in my lands. You're his strongest. I considered the healer, but you're the wiser choice.”

“I don't like being a pawn in games I know nothing about, for the record,” says Foggy. “I don't like you counting on me to save him when I don't know what the alternative is, I don't like that he wished himself on me and refuses to tell me anything. This whole situation is shitty.”

This time, she laughs outright. “Your honesty is a credit to you, Foggy. You say he wished himself on you. Do you wish him gone?”

That's a question that begs a hasty answer, so he's not going to give one. “No,” he finally says. “I wish him safer, but whether he is or not is Matt's choice. I'm not going to take responsibility for his life and your realm, which is what I think you want. I'm going to keep asking him questions because I think it's shitty anyone made him think he was supposed to die for the people who kidnapped him in the first place, but that's a separate issue.”

“I'm reminded of why we don't often coax lawyers across the border,” she says, sounding so fond it's hard to be offended. “You're just as interesting as poets but you could argue the whiskers off a cat.”

“Also I think we would be less inclined to consent.” Foggy sighs. “Speaking of my profession, if you're not going to give me useful answers, we should talk about your actual legal needs so I can cry over having to do contracts and wills instead of courtroom law.”

“I have faith in your versatility,” says Elektra, and lets him change the subject.

Two days later, Foggy finds Matt in regular daytime clothes, ordering something for dinner from a food truck where Foggy would be sure to run into him but doesn't have to go over and say hello, and Foggy rolls his eyes before he joins the line behind Matt and talks over his shoulder. “I'll pay for his, and another of whatever he's having for me, thanks.”

Matt turns to beam at him when the woman running the truck nods and takes Foggy's money. “I was hoping to run into you today.”

“You gave me the opportunity to come say hello without knocking on my window. I appreciate that.”

“I don't have a phone, but I didn't want to push myself on you. It seemed like the least intrusive way to check.”

Foggy hums and takes his change, then the food when it's offered. “Come on, let's find somewhere to eat, I'm betting you can't eat and maneuver that cane at the same time, and I can't eat and lead you around.”

“I'll take you to where I'm staying,” Matt offers. “It's close.”

“Lead the way.”

Foggy got fairly intimate with Elektra's finances the other day (amazing how trusts and investments put together over centuries have a tendency to get unreasonably huge), so he's not surprised when Matt leads him to a ruthlessly modern penthouse with more windows than any one person really needs. It doesn't look like Matt really lives there, but he's out every night Foggy knows about and probably sleeps during the day, so that makes sense.

“This is pretty awful and not at all you,” says Foggy, setting their food at the kitchen table, “but damn, the view is nice.”

“Unfortunately, I can't appreciate that. But it's a good vantage point to hear from, even if it's a little farther from Hell's Kitchen than I like.”

“So you really are in this for just the neighborhood, not the borough or the city.”

Matt produces silverware and water glasses. “It's where I grew up, where my father grew up. If I can't make a difference everywhere in the time I have, I want to make a difference there. It was getting richer when I left, but that changed.”

Foggy's being led, but he doesn't really mind. He explains the extensive property damage from the alien invasion and gives Matt a rundown on politics and superheroes. Matt asks questions, and wrinkles his nose at Foggy's explanation of the SHIELD leak, and when the conversation and the food run dry Foggy sighs and prepares himself for the topics they're both going to like a lot less. “Elektra came to see me again.”

Matt tenses. “I'll tell her to stop bothering you.”

“She's paying me a lot of money, so I'm in favor of her bothering me right now.” Matt frowns, and Foggy considers that and puts his hand on Matt's arm. That instantly erases the frown, which is both awesome and scary. “She's a client. And she wants me on her side, which also appears to be your side. Not the side you think you're on, which is the side where you sacrifice yourself for people who abducted you as a child, but the side where you live and she seems to have some viable alternate plan for someone else to do this.”

“She's liable for it if I don't do it,” Matt says quietly.

No matter Foggy's feelings on the Fair Folk and how they've treated Matt, he has to admit that he and Elektra seem genuinely fond of each other. “This is Elektra. She seems like the kind to have about four contingency plans in place. I don't know why she picked you in the first place if she wasn't going to let you do it, but she seems to be firm that she doesn't want you dead. She's spent some time over the past few days setting things up so you would have income and property here, and she seems to be working on creating a paper trail for you too.” Matt takes a sharp breath. “You didn't know.”

“I didn't. I don't understand.”

“Neither do I, but I'm hoping you'll enlighten me.”

“Foggy, I can't. She needs me to do this, and I don't—I have to—”

“Do you want to live?” That stops Matt short. “That's the question here. I'm not going to ask if you want to die, because that's an answer neither of us wants, but do you want to live? Here? Because that's Elektra's intention. You could buy Claire the coffee she deserves so much—actually, between you and me, you could probably buy her the entire chain of Starbucks, but we'll start small—I could introduce you to my friend Karen. You could find a day job.” He clears his throat. “We could go on a date, I guess.”

Matt is fidgeting with his napkin and not looking in Foggy's direction, but Foggy suspects he isn't imagining the glint of tears in Matt's eyes. “That's not fair. Tempting me like that.”

“The question stands.”

“Of course I want to live. I want … well, not the Starbucks, but I want the rest of that.”

“Then tell me how to make it happen. Trust Elektra to have another solution and tell me.”

It shouldn't work. Foggy is expecting to have another week of trying to wear Matt down, but maybe Matt wants it to work. Or maybe he just trusts Elektra that much. “You—someone has to hold on to me.”

“That's going to need some elaborating. I could probably hug you at the right time and with the appropriate drama, but this is them. It's got to be more complicated.”

“On the night off, when we're leaving New York for the other realm and then for the eaters' realm, someone would have to pull me off my horse and then hold on to me.” Matt swallows. “They would turn me into something poisonous, then something big and vicious, and then something … whatever they think will hurt most after that, probably. But if whoever it was never let go, they would have to set me free and pick someone else.”

That sounds awful, and his heartbeat must say it, because Matt is managing to look sad and smug at the same time. “And this theoretical someone is me, because Claire is a wise woman and would not get tangled up in this shit, and there's no one else. Is that about the size of it?”

“But I would never ask you to risk yourself like that,” Matt says, earnest. “That's why I haven't been telling you.”

There's a host of reasons, but Foggy decides to find it sweet instead of annoying that Matt is reducing it to that one. He's thinking about everyone's safety but his own, but that's not the problem right now. “As of right now, I'm not sure if I'll be taking the risk, but I'm glad I've got the option. Would they be aiming to kill me, or just make me drop you?”

“I don't know. But I would still be me. I would be trying to make sure I didn't hurt you. I just might not be able to help it.” Matt shakes his head. “But you shouldn't do it. You shouldn't get yourself hurt for me.”

“I don't want to get hurt. If there are other options that involve me not hurt and you alive I will take them. But me hurt is better than you dead, I think.”

“No, it's not. I've been preparing for this, expecting this, and what if it did kill you? What would I do here with no one?”

“You would find other people.” Matt looks mulish. “That's how humans work. We grieve and we try to move on. You've known me for a few weeks, Matt, you'll find other people you like better.” That sounds like a lie even when he's saying it, and Matt doesn't dignify him with a response. “Okay, fine, maybe you'll be miserable forever. Stalemate.”

Matt stands up from the table and starts cleaning things up. It's weird, watching him move so easily around, only fumbling a little for what's on the table and never bumping into anything bigger. Weirder now that he's wearing jeans and a shirt instead of his armor. “I wish it was an easy answer. You could do it and we'd have a happy ending and no one would be hurt by it. I'd love that. But it can't be that easy. It never is.”

“Will you do me a favor and talk to Elektra about it, at least? Let her tell you she's got a plan, or maybe even what that plan is. You'll be able to tell if she's lying.”

For a few seconds, Foggy is sure Matt is going to say no, but he finally nods, even though he doesn't look happy about it. “I'll talk to her but she might not answer me. There are traditions about who is allowed to speak to who about what for this.”

“So you're telling me I'm probably going to get another visit with a cryptic discussion.”

Matt makes a face. “Maybe. We'll see. I've asked her not to bother you, but she thinks this is more important.”

“It is. Like I said, Matt, I'm not saying I'm sacrificing my safety for you. I just want enough information to decide about it for myself.”

“That makes sense,” says Matt, and he sounds incredibly grudging about it, but Foggy will take any progress. “That's all I can tell you for now, though, until I've talked to Elektra.”

“That's fine. We can talk about literally anything else.” Foggy looks out the window. It's been getting dark while they talked. “Or I can go home, if you have to go out and fight crime.”

Matt ducks his head. “I've been going out every night for a long time now. The city can do without me for one night. If you'd like to stay.”

Foggy stands up. “Yeah, Matt. I think I would. Thanks for the offer.”

Matt shudders a little when Foggy thanks him, and then he's right in Foggy's space, hands coming to rest on his face before he kisses him, and Foggy kisses back. If Matt is willing to stay and give up, for even one night, the reason he came back to Hell's Kitchen in the first place, Foggy is more than willing to stay too, and give up some of the boundaries he's been setting to keep his heart from getting bruised or worse. “You're welcome,” says Matt when he pulls away, and leans in again.

Foggy is the one to pull his mouth down this time, and he does his best to forget about the tithe and all the decisions he's going to have to make in the next week.

“You got laid last night,” Marci says when she pokes her head into her office, wiggling her eyebrows and then letting herself in, presumably for more details. “Is it whoever you've been distracted by so much lately?”

Foggy considers his ability to lie to Marci and goes with the easy answer. “Yes.”

She leans on his desk and makes an elaborate gesture of invitation. “Tell me, does this have anything to do with you snagging the best new client we've had in a long time out from under Hogarth's nose even though that's not the kind of law you like to practice?” She grins. “Before you answer that question, you should know that I overheard the receptionist sounding confused while confirming an evening appointment for the two of you next Thursday night.”

Foggy is probably going to go into his calendar and find that Elektra has blocked off his evening, and from the timing of it he would bet that's her way of giving him a time and even probably a place for where he should go to drag Matt off a horse. “It has something to do with it, but not exactly what you think.”

“You suck at being mysterious, Foggy bear, come on.”

He sighs and marshals together his lies. “She is not the one that I spent last night with—”

“Spent the night! You're moving fast.”

“—but she does know him. He's the one who introduced us, he works with her, one of the people designated to take care of her business in the city. I met him at a coffee shop and it turned out he knew one of my neighbors. This is not the salacious story you're looking for.”

Marci grins. “Well, that depends on the details, doesn't it? Though I'm sad you're not sleeping with the jet-setting billionaire, I was going to make you see if we're the same shoe size and tell you to steal some of her collection for me.”

Foggy laughs. “We should do dinner soon, you and I. You would probably like Elektra, but I think she's pretty busy while she's in town and doesn't want to have dinner with her lawyer.”

“Who cares about Elektra, I want to know about this guy. What's his name? What's he like? If he's not good enough for you I'm going to scare him off.”

“His name is Matt, and it's new so he's none of your business. Give me a week or two of sex before I start introducing him to all of my terrifying friends. Between you and Karen he's going to run away screaming, and then Brett will make sure he doesn't regret the running away.” Marci rolls her eyes and Foggy grins at her, even though he doesn't feel like grinning. He wants to introduce Matt to his friends, because he and Karen will love each other once they stop being wary, and Marci probably isn't going to like him much, but she'll get why Foggy likes him, which is usually what matters with her. If Matt is only alive until Thursday, though, introducing them all is going to cause a lot of complications Foggy doesn't want to deal with. “Leaves Elektra free for you to seduce if you want, though. Then she could buy you shoes in your size even if she's the wrong one.”

“Believe me, I have every intention of marrying rich, but I don't want to poach in your territory. Let me know if you and this Matt get serious, then maybe I'll ask about Elektra next time she's in town.”

If Elektra is still around, Foggy is definitely never going to introduce the two of them. The world might not survive. “Sure,” he says instead. “You'd make a beautiful society bride.”

She leans across the desk to kiss him messily on the forehead, probably leaving a lipstick mark because Marci does that on purpose sometimes, picks lipstick that will smear just because she likes marking her territory. She and Matt are terrifyingly alike, now that he considers it. “Damn straight I would. I'm co-counsel on the big tech copyright case, so I've got to do some reading before a meeting, but call me about dinner and I'll ask you all about your boy toy.”

Marci breezes back out of his office, a breath of normalcy in the middle of the folk tale his life has turned into, and Foggy lets himself indulge in breathing in that feeling for a few minutes before he goes to check his calendar.

Elektra did indeed block off his Thursday night for a meeting, saying she'll send a car for him if he gives her a call, and Foggy does his best not to think about any of it and gets around to doing his job.

Matt stops by Foggy's window when he's done fighting crime that night, knocking to be let in and kissing Foggy as soon as the window opens, even though he's still on the other side of it. “I've been thinking about that all day,” he says when he lets Foggy go.

“You've been sleeping all day, if you do stay in the city we're going to have to try to make you slightly less nocturnal if you ever want to see me. Did you just stay up listening to me breathe the whole time I was sleeping last night?” Matt shifts, uncomfortable, and opens his mouth, but Foggy waves him silent and steps aside to get him through the window. “Don't answer that, actually, some things I don't want to know. Are you here to stay tonight?”

“If you let me.”

Foggy breathes out. “You should know that Elektra told me the time and she's going to get me to the place if I say I want to. Have you talked to her?”

“Yes.” Matt frowns. He's shedding his helmet and costume little by little across Foggy's living room, and Foggy thinks about objecting, but it's not like he doesn't leave his clothes on the floor sometimes. “She wouldn't or couldn't tell me details, but she told me she has a plan, and that Stick hates it but thinks it would work.”

“Stick?”

“He taught me how to do this. Fight, use my senses. He's blind like I am, so he knew how it works. He trained Elektra too. He's … he advises her on things like this sometimes. Even though we don't trust him.”

“Great, a guy we don't trust thinks it's a good idea.”

“Sometimes his agenda isn't hers. But she thinks they align this time.” Matt makes it to the couch, shirtless and most of the way down to his boxers too. “I still don't know if I trust it. I can't trust it. If there were an easy solution, someone would have already come up with it.”

Foggy sits next to him, not surprised when Matt immediately gropes for his hands and holds on tight. Now that they're together, in whatever sense, Matt seems to want to be touching him at all times. “Elektra seems pretty innovative and scary. I wouldn't want to be one of the eaters if she decides to take them on.”

“Are you going to try to do it? Save me?”

That's the big question, and what Foggy wants to answer and what he should answer are two very different things. “I don't know. Probably, at this point. More likely than not, anyway. Are you going to try to stop me?”

Matt's throat works as he swallows. “No. Probably not.”

“Okay.” Foggy lets that stand, because he doesn't know what else to do with it. “Come on, I'm tired. Come to bed, if you're staying. You haven't been in my bedroom yet. It will be new and different for us.”

Matt's face is a picture, but he lets Foggy urge him to his feet and pull him into the bedroom, over to the bed, where he pats it to see how high it is and then bends to smell the pillow, a deep inhale that makes Foggy's heart hurt a little no matter how weird and uncomfortable it is.

Foggy decides not to comment, just takes off his clothes and climbs into bed beside Matt instead, kisses him hard enough to convince himself that Matt is going to stay.

It's a pattern, for the next days. Matt shows up at Foggy's window when he's finished fighting crime and they talk around the biggest issue even though Foggy is growing more and more sure of his decision. Matt stays the night, and Foggy hates leaving the bed to go to work in the morning and spends most of the day dodging Marci's visits and Karen's calls. They spend the days over the weekend together, visiting everywhere Matt remembers in Hell's Kitchen, from his old apartment to his father's grave.

Wednesday night, when it's late enough that Foggy is getting nervous about where Matt could be, Claire comes knocking on his door. “He's passed out on my couch,” she says when Foggy answers it. “Seems pretty upset about something, but he's not hurt too badly that I can tell. No head wounds, just a few bruised ribs and a cut on his arm I had to stitch up.”

“I'll come get him. Thanks, Claire.”

“I haven't seen him too much lately. You must be a good influence.”

Foggy squirms a little. Claire deserves to know what's going on, what the man she's been patching up for weeks is planning to do. He should have thought to knock on her door days ago. “Maybe. He's asleep? We should probably talk.”

Claire sighs. “Great. Come in, I'll start some water for tea, I have work early tomorrow so I can't get as drunk as I think this conversation is going to leave me wanting to be.”

When Foggy comes in, Matt is sprawled across her couch, mouth slack with sleep, and he's worried that what his heart does at that sight is going to be loud enough to wake Matt up. He doesn't shift, though, even when Claire doesn't bother being too quiet in the kitchen, so Foggy figures this is as much privacy as he and Claire are going to get.

“Tell me,” says Claire, back still to him, and the story comes spilling out.

Foggy is usually a natural storyteller, but this one comes out all wrong, in the wrong order, with the wrong phrasing. Claire doesn't interrupt, though, just lets him get through the whole thing piece by piece. When he's done, she doesn't say anything, just turns around and watches him, waits for something else to spill out. He shrugs. “You deserve to know. In case he doesn't show up again.”

“Are you going to try to make sure he does come back?”

She knows what that question means, and Foggy knows what it means when he says “Yeah. Yes. I'm going to do it.”

Claire nods sharply. “I'm off tomorrow night. If either one of you is hurt but not dead, come here. I'll patch you up.”

Matt groans, at such a suspiciously handy moment that Foggy suspects he's been faking sleep for a while, and pushes himself up on his elbows. “Foggy? Claire? I'm sorry, it must be late. You should have woken me, I would have left.”

“Don't apologize, it's been educational,” says Claire, dry, and goes over to help him off the couch. “You know how to care for those stitches and those bruises. Don't be an idiot about them. Don't put my work to waste.”

“Foggy told you.”

“Be grateful he did. Now I'm going to be on alert with the right supplies to patch you both up this time. He has my number. Call it if you need to.”

Matt takes both her hands, holding on tight. “Thank you, Claire. For everything.”

“Thank me for tonight. You can thank me for tomorrow night tomorrow. For now, both of you go home.”

Matt is tired enough or hurt enough that he's stumbling a little, so Foggy takes his arm while they leave Claire's apartment and settle in his, gathering Matt's armor out of her arms as he goes and hoping that no one else is in the hall as they walk. He bypasses the couch for the bedroom, dumping Matt on the bed and getting undressed in silence. Matt isn't asleep, but he doesn't talk either, until Foggy joins him on the bed.

“You're upset about something tonight,” Foggy says when he's under the covers. Apparently Matt needs leading tonight. “You were upset about something when you went to Claire, she said. Is this you realizing you might die tomorrow night? Because that would actually be a healthy response.”

Matt rolls until he's curled around Foggy, fitting together so tight that they're going to be stuck that way come morning if they don't move, limbs asleep. “I thought … when I started this, I thought when I finished I would have done something big, made a big difference to the city. Left it safer than I found it. But I've done so much and it's not … it's not any better, everyone is still hurting, and I hate it.”

“Not that I approve of your hobbies, but a lot of people are safe and alive because you're here. Just because you didn't turn us into a magical utopia in the course of a month or two doesn't mean you didn't make a difference. Although if it will help I'll shamelessly use it as a way to make you want to stay.”

Matt makes a pained noise and runs his fingers through Foggy's hair. “I want to stay. Of course I do.”

“Well, I'm going to help with that. You heard me with Claire, I'm betting.”

“You have to promise me something.”

Foggy sighs. “No I don't, especially not if you're going to tell me to give up. I'm stubborn. My mom will tell you that's half the reason I became a lawyer and not a butcher.”

“I won't ask you to promise that, even though I want to. Promise me that if I hurt you so much that you think you're going to die, you'll let me go. If you die and I stay, I don't … I don't want that. Let me go if it's going to kill you.”

That was Foggy's plan, but he wants to do the opposite now that Matt has asked him. “I have a healthy self-interest in my survival. I will definitely work on that.”

“I love you,” says Matt, and Foggy's heart leaps into his throat. “I know that's not something you're supposed to say so soon, but I want you to know that. Just in case.”

“I'm going to be very in love with you once we've had some more time to date in less fraught circumstances.” It seems like an underwhelming declaration after Matt's, but it's the best he can do, and judging from the way Matt buries his head against Foggy's chest, he gets it. “I can't promise, because I don't know what tomorrow night is going to be like, but I'll try, Matt. Okay?”

“Okay,” says Matt, and neither of them says anything else, but neither of them falls asleep for a long time either.

Foggy is too superstitious to revise his will or write goodbye letters or make goodbye calls to his family and friends. Marci knows where his existing will is, and he tells everyone he loves them at least once a week. He writes out Karen's contact information for Claire and leaves it with a note that Claire can anonymously tell Karen everything because Karen deserves the story, but that's all he lets himself do.

He fakes a cough and a sniffle at work so at the end of the day he can casually tell Hogarth that he thinks he might call out sick for Friday and take the weekend to recover, in case he's injured or worse and can't come in, and she just rolls her eyes at him like she's been doing since Elektra decided to make him a client and tells him to cancel his meetings and take the day and not breathe on anyone on his way out.

He half-expects Matt to be in his apartment when he comes home, but he's already gone, probably preparing himself for whatever's going to happen, leaving Foggy fidgety and at loose ends.

Foggy calls Elektra when he's out of dishes to wash and seriously considering dusting. “When is your car coming?”

“Soon after sunset. You've decided to do it, then?”

“Yes.”

“I'll owe you a debt, Franklin Nelson. I don't forget those. Matt won't thank you for what's going to happen.”

“Believe me, I know. We've been discussing it. Unless you mean what happens after I theoretically rescue him. Neither of us knows your plan and that makes me nervous.”

She laughs. “Don't worry. I have a lot of faith in this plan. And in you. You've impressed me.”

“I know you can't tell me much, but I do want to know one thing I didn't get out of Matt—is there something I need to know about getting ahold of him in the first place? I know what I need to do after that, but starting could be difficult.”

“He'll come almost at the end of the group of us. Just run out and grab him. Drag him down. Nothing will begin until his feet touch the ground, so you can pull him down safely.”

That's a relief. Sort of. “And before I see him I should just hide in the bushes?”

“If that's what you wish. There may be other spectators. People have learned, over time, when to watch out for us. Don't let them distract you. Just seize Matthew and do what you must.”

“That's the plan. He tried to make me promise to let go if I think he's going to kill me.”

Elektra hums. “It must be a fair fight. Those are the rules.”

“Good to know.”

“Now, I have preparations to make. I'll give him your love. And I'll see you soon.”

“You too,” Foggy starts to say, but he's talking to the dial tone.

Elektra's car comes more than an hour later, when he's changed into something more comfortable and knocked on Claire's door to give her his spare key and get a lecture about not taking stupid risks that he thinks she probably wishes she were giving to Matt. The car is driven by a stone-faced man Foggy is pretty sure is human, and drops him off at the edge of Central Park with a map to one of its more isolated areas. Makes sense. The Fair Folk would pick the place in the city with the least iron.

The park is busy, not with runners or dog-walkers but with people skulking around like they're waiting for something. Foggy joins them.

He shouldn't be surprised when Karen walks up to him, saying his name like she's not sure it's him, but somehow he is. “Of course, the night only needs this,” he says on the tail end of a sigh. “Your source told you you'd get a good story if you showed up here tonight, right?”

“Yes, but what are you doing here?”

“I'm going to do something stupid.” He puts his arm around her and gives her a hug, because it's going to be both better and worse to have a friend here. “But it has to be just me, okay? That's the rules. You can write about it if you want, my name left out, but you have to let me do what I'm going to do.”

Her mouth turns down. “You're going to try to stop the tithe. Because ...”

“Because the guy who was going to pay it really shouldn't be, and I've been assured there's an alternate plan and this isn't going to lead to essentially the death of a whole realm. I'm going to be fine, Karen. Just going to have one really terrifying night and it's all going to be okay.”

She doesn't look happy, but she doesn't try to talk him out of it either. Probably because he hasn't tried too hard to talk her out of her stories on corrupt police and city officials and other powerful and easily annoyed people. “I'll have an ambulance on speed dial.”

“Claire. My neighbor.” He takes his phone out. “I'll give you her number, she's a nurse and she knows what to be prepared for.”

Karen takes the number and waits with him, her shoulder against his, while it gets darker and the park fills up with people, some of whom he's pretty sure aren't human. None of them are really talking, so Foggy keeps quiet too, just peeks at Karen making quick notes in her ever-present notebook, half of which seem to be her putting together the pieces of his story a lot more quickly than is good for his ego.

It starts when Foggy hears what sounds like bells in the distance, and then out of nowhere, there's a group riding through Central Park. Elektra is out front, on a black horse, wearing an impressive dress, and Karen gasps when she sees her, probably recognizing her, and the people who must be her court follow her. There's an old man with white eyes who must be Stick, and a lot of people a little too beautiful to be real.

At the end of the group, there's a white horse, and Matt is on it, sitting tall and proud in the armor he wears to beat up criminals, and Foggy pulls Karen over to kiss her on the cheek before he starts walking over to Matt. Nothing is going to happen until he gets Matt on the ground, so he's not going to run.

Karen lets out some kind of exclamation behind him, and it spreads among the people watching him, but Foggy keeps his mind on what he's doing, and Matt's head turns in his direction just before Foggy's hand lands on the horse's bridle, pulling it to a stop. “Are we doing this?” he asks, quiet enough that he hopes no one hears it.

“Stay safe,” says Matt, but he doesn't say no, and Foggy reaches up, grabs him around the waist, and hauls him down.

They fall in an ungraceful heap of armor and limbs, and Foggy hears yelling, screaming, nightmare sounds and Karen screaming his name. Matt's helmet has fallen off, and he looks wild and wide-eyed, and Foggy holds on as tight as he can right before Matt starts to shift shape in his arms. He's shrinking, changing, and Foggy holds on tight, rolls so he doesn't crush Matt if he ends up small enough to be crushed, and he tries hard not to shriek when the biggest scorpion he's ever seen winds up on his chest, but he sort of fails. The scorpion is struggling, trying to get away, and Foggy isn't sure if that's animal instincts or Matt trying to make sure he doesn't sting Foggy.

“Would you just stay still?” Foggy hisses, because still seems like the wisest choice with a scorpion, and his tail looks very scary and probably lethal. Foggy refuses to go from a scorpion sting in Central Park, but he refuses to let go on the first test either. “Stay still, Matt, come on, only two more, we can do this.”

Matt shifts anyway, tail hitting Foggy in the side, and it feels like an electric shock, like a wasp sting fifty times over, and Foggy yells but he doesn't let go, because it's supposed to be a fair fight, he's supposed to survive to at least try with the next two forms, so it's not going to be immediately lethal.

He hasn't let go, even if every inch of his skin is crawling and now stinging, and there's another shift, more people yelling while Matt starts changing shape again. Foggy isn't even sure if it's the onlookers or the Fair Folk shouting.

This time, Matt is getting rapidly bigger, and Foggy rolls away so he doesn't get crushed, glad when Matt trends more mammal than creepy-crawly. He's growing massive, though, big enough that Foggy is glad they rolled, and pulling his shoulder almost out of his socket while he grapples to hold on. And then there are claws, and a terrifying amount of teeth, and Matt is a lion. He's doing a better job of staying still this time, but there's only so much avoiding of injury they can do when Matt is this big and they have to stay this close. Foggy can feel his jeans shred as Matt tries to get his legs away, can feel his animal brain screaming in terror at a predator's mouth so close to his head. His arm is out of joint and no doubt bruised, stuck under Matt, but he holds on, keeps telling Matt to hold still because they can do this. One more, and they can get through it.

“We can do this,” says Foggy, and Matt starts changing again.

He's getting smaller, denser, and Foggy prepares himself for a snake, something else poisonous, only to find himself clutching a rod of metal that's suddenly burning, molten, blistering him the same way it must blister the Fair Folk. He's still clutching Matt to his chest, but the only reason he doesn't drop Matt is because every muscle is locked up in agony. He can smell his skin heating up, his hands, his chest, and he thinks he hears Karen scream again, but he's not going to let go now, not even if Matt would want him to.

It goes on forever, or for what feels like forever, and he must be close to passing out because he doesn't feel Matt shift this time, he just has him in his arms, an uncomfortable human-shaped bundle crying and apologizing while the outside world tries to press in again.

“I made the right choice, I see,” says Elektra, and Foggy gently pushes Matt out of the way so he can see her. She's still on her horse, right in front of them, and he wouldn't be surprised if she'd been watching the whole time. “Remember what I said, Foggy, and what I did in your office. Matthew, I've been planning this for centuries. Live, and I'll see you again, one way or another.” She raises her voice. “So we have lost our tithe, and it's my responsibility to find a new one. I'll go myself.”

There's a ripple, surprise and anger and horror, and Matt makes a torn-apart noise and clutches Foggy's sore shoulder, making him wince. “Elektra, don't, I can still—”

“Your connection to my court is broken, Matthew Michael Murdock. You have no right to sacrifice yourself for my land anymore, but I will.” She raises her fist, and there's a sword in it, made out of crystal, light shining through it from the moon. “The eaters have never seen a queen of Faerie before, and I say now that they'll choke on me, and I'll come back before another tithe must be paid with a promise that we'll never pay one again!”

Some people are yelling in anger, but some people are cheering. Some people believe her, and Foggy thinks Matt might even be one of them, though he still looks torn.

Elektra gives Foggy and Matt one last nod and turns her horse, spurring it into action, into a gallop. Her court is behind her, streaming in a line to see her go, or maybe to stop her, and they disappear one by one, moving from one world to the next just like they're fading out of view while they ride, leaving the park ringingly silent.

Foggy can hear every one of his breaths, and it doesn't take Matt long to clue in that he's hurting, burned all over his hands and chest, scratched and bruised and sore and stung, and he sits bolt upright, moving so he's supporting Foggy instead of the other way around, looking around wildly. “Foggy, your phone, I crushed it, we need to find someone—”

“Claire,” says Karen, dropping to her knees next to them, and Matt startles. “I'm going to call Claire, and this—the Devil and I are going to get you to her, Foggy, okay? Are you sure you don't want to go to the hospital?”

“I want Claire,” Foggy manages, but the adrenaline is fading now, and it's leaving him exhausted as well as in pain. Matt is making panicked noises, patting at him like that will stop the pain, and Karen looks pale and terrified, eyes red while she gets her phone out and starts babbling into it. All of it gets less distinct—everything gets less distinct, and Foggy feels sorry to leave them both worrying, but he's never been so glad to fall unconscious in his life.

Sound returns before Foggy can pry his eyes open. Three familiar voices, two talking to each other and one to him.

“—the kind of thing hospitals are for,” Claire is saying, quiet and something like fond, and he blinks his eyes open to find her close to him, and behind her the familiar ceiling of his own bedroom. “Hi. You're all bandaged up and you're not going to die, though apparently you tried. Karen and Matt are—”

“Foggy,” says Matt, sounding breathless and standing in Foggy's bedroom doorway. Karen is behind him in an instant. “You're awake.”

“Worried,” Claire finishes, wry, and turns to the other two. “Don't upset him. He's on a lot of painkillers so you won't hurt him if you hug him, but don't touch anywhere with bandages.”

Karen pushes by Matt and lands on her knees next to the bed. Up close, it's clear she's been crying, and her smile is wobbly when he tries one out on her. “I can't believe you were sitting on this story and never even said,” she says, voice shaking. “I got Matt to go on the record explaining the bare bones of what happened tonight, but I'm guessing you're not going to do the same.”

“This is not the kind of publicity I want. Hi. Sorry about everything.” She buries her face in his shoulder and he winces. “Ow. I'm going to have to tell Hogarth I got in a car accident or something, I have tomorrow off but I'm going to want at least a week before going anywhere.”

“I can't believe you did that, you could have died,” Karen says, voice cracking, and Foggy nudges her with his chin because it's perhaps the only part of his body that doesn't ache. Matt is still frozen in the doorway of his bedroom, and Claire is standing, starting to clean things up. He's going to have to buy her dinner every day for a year.

“I didn't die. Fully alive. Nothing that won't heal.” He glances at Claire. “Right? I'm not missing a limb that I haven't noticed yet?”

She looks at him, half a smile on her face, and sighs. “The burns on your hands are going to give you the most long-term trouble, and there may be some scarring from the burns, but you're going to be fine, Foggy.” She looks at Matt. “He's going to be fine.”

“I should talk to him.” He nudges Karen again. “I'm okay. Can I have some time with Matt? I'll explain everything when I'm not as drugged up, but he's looking kind of shell-shocked.”

For a minute, he thinks Karen is going to say no, but in the end, she kisses him on the forehead (hey, that doesn't hurt either). “I'll come back tomorrow, Ben will let me work from home and I'll look after you since Claire has to work. Don't do anything else dangerous tonight.”

“You're one to talk.”

“I'll walk you out,” says Claire, giving Karen a nod. “Foggy, I'll check on you again before I go but you should be stable for the night.”

“Thanks. Both of you.”

Claire shuts the door behind her when she leaves the room, leaving Matt on Foggy's side of it, and there's silence. Probably not silence for Matt, who can hear Claire and Karen out in the living room and the city beyond that, but silence for Foggy, who doesn't know how to interpret the look on Matt's face. He looks like he's just shut down, now that Foggy is conscious.

“I'm sorry about Elektra,” he says, when Matt shows no sign of saying anything. “I didn't know that was her plan. But if it's any comfort, I would not want to be one of the eaters tonight, she was looking pretty intense.”

“She's deadly. I just have to pray she's deadly enough.” Matt takes a few steps forward before he stops himself again. “I hurt you so badly.”

Foggy tries to figure out what to say to that, because it's hard to be comforting when Matt can hear him lying and his head feels like it's stuffed with cotton. “Not on purpose.” That's definitely true. “And against your will. It's not like you meant to turn into a lion.”

Matt is still practically pressed against the door. “Why didn't you let me go? The last one, when I burned you so badly, I would have told you to drop me if I could.”

“Honestly, at that point I didn't have executive control over my muscles, I was seized up and it just happened that I was still holding on.” Foggy manages to pat the bed next to him even though it makes his hand hurt through the bandages. “Would you come over here? I'm tired, you're probably exhausted, and you've got to rethink your whole life but we can deal with that in the morning. You've got funds from Elektra. Things. Come on, Matt.”

After a few seconds, Matt does, creeping across the room. Sometime while Foggy was unconscious, he stole a t-shirt and a pair of Foggy's pajama pants, which are practically falling off his hips, and he gets on the side of the bed Foggy isn't on so slowly Foggy can barely feel the bed move. “I'm sorry,” he says again, quiet. “Thank you. I'll never—I can't thank you enough. I'll owe you forever. Even if Elektra can't pay her debt, I'll do anything—”

“Hey, shh, you don't need to do anything. This isn't a debt thing. You needed help, I helped.” Foggy manages to turn. Matt is curling into a ball on top of the covers on the other side of the bed, but he's doing it facing Foggy. Foggy is going to choose to take that as a win. “Sometimes, you care about a person enough, you stop keeping track of favors and who owes who what. You just do things. Can we just say that's what this is?”

Matt frowns, but he shifts a little closer, just close enough that Foggy thinks he can feel the edge of his body heat. “I'm going to keep thanking you. You saved my life.”

“You can thank me in the morning, when we have both slept off our near-death experiences and had breakfast. For now, I'd like to sleep.” Matt nods, trying to sit up, and Foggy flails out until he can stop Matt moving even though it makes his hand feel like it's on fire again. “Don't go anywhere.”

“Okay,” says Matt, and settles back down. “Get some rest. I'll keep you safe.”

Matt sounds solemn, like it's a promise, and between that and the painkillers, it's easy to slip back under, fall asleep with Matt right next to him, the sound of his breathing louder than the quiet voices he's starting to hear out in the living room.

He thinks he hears Matt talking to Claire, after he's fallen asleep, but when he wakes up in the middle of the night his apartment is silent and Matt is asleep next to him, his hand reaching out for Foggy and not quite touching his bandages.

Foggy watches him until he falls asleep again.

When Foggy wakes up, groggy in the sunshine, Matt kisses him three times: once on his hand, gently over the bandages, once on his forehead, brushing his hair out of the way, and once on the lips, so soft Foggy almost doesn't feel it. It feels weighty in ways Foggy doesn't want to examine, so he says “I'm okay” instead, against Matt's mouth.

“You are,” Matt replies, tentatively happy, and pulls away. “I'm going to take care of you today. Claire told me how. She said she'll stop by later, and so did Karen. And your phone has been ringing.”

“Probably Marci. Another friend, I work with her.”

“You should call her later. To let her know you're okay.”

“I probably will. Karen probably texted her something dire, she'll need reassuring.” Just like Matt probably does. He looks less wrecked than he did last night, but he doesn't look great. “For now, I'm happy to just rest and relax. I am definitely willing to take severe injury as an excuse to slack off in bed all day.”

Matt looks stricken. “I'm sorry.”

“I'm not feeling much regret this morning, for what that's worth.” Foggy pauses. “Are you?”

“I—no. No. I wish Elektra hadn't decided to sacrifice herself, but I'm so glad I'm alive. With you. I don't know what I'm going to do.”

“Pretty much anything you want. Elektra left you what amounts to a pretty hefty trust fund. You've got time to figure things out and the money for a degree or a trip to Tahiti or whatever else you want to do with your new lease on life.”

Matt reaches out and runs his fingers across Foggy's face. Since his face is the least sore part of his body, Foggy manages to enjoy that. “I want to stay with you. I want to keep helping people. That's all I know so far. Maybe I'll do what you do, become a lawyer, but I think that takes time.”

“It does, but you've got that. Elektra had people working on a paper trail for you so the authorities don't come looking for you when you show up, so you'll have a high school degree. Maybe even a college one. We'll figure that out soon.”

“I don't know what to do with any of this.” Matt makes an aimless gesture. “With a life.”

He hasn't had a normal one for a long time, and sometime soon Foggy is going to let himself freak out a little about how different their lives have been, all the things they're going to have to learn about each other if they want this to work. He wants this to work. For today, though, Matt doesn't need analysis. He needs comfort just as much as Foggy does. “Like I said, you can figure it out. You've got the time and the resources, and in the meantime you've got your crime-fighting unless you blew your cover with Karen.”

“She said she would try to keep my involvement and yours out of her article about what happened in the park last night. For your sake. She wasn't lying.”

“Good. Then you aren't going to get dragged off to jail while you try to figure your life out.” Matt cracks a smile at that, and Foggy grins his relief. “For today, though, I'm not thinking any farther than breakfast. I don't suppose the Good People taught you how to cook eggs?”

“I can cook eggs,” says Matt, with a laugh. It's small, but it's real. It's a start. “I'll make you some and bring them with your phone so you can tell all your friends that you're okay.”

“More than okay,” Foggy promises.

“Good.” Matt kisses him again (mouth, cheek, hair—important things come in threes) and gets off the bed. He leaves the bedroom door open when he goes out to the kitchen.

They're both safe somehow, and alive, and Foggy is going to recover. By recent standards, that's a really good day. “Thank you,” he says, not sure if he means Matt or Elektra or the universe in general, for letting it all turn out okay.

Out in the kitchen, Matt murmurs the same thing, barely loud enough for Foggy to hear.