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"You're pathetic, Nelson," Jones says.
"Objection," Foggy says, raising his glass instead of his finger. "Assumes facts that are not in evidence."
Jones, amazingly, looks even more disgusted. "Nope. I am not doing this cutesy legalese shit with you. Save it for a courtroom or, better yet, someone who cares."
"Karen always got a kick out of it," Foggy mutters, downing his drink because he's expressly not thinking about the only other vigilante he knows. Knew. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and calls for another, Jones watching him warily.
"You're not getting maudlin on me, are you? Because I'll find another bar," Jones says. "I don't do feelings, Nelson."
"They're not contagious, Jones," Foggy says. "You don't need to go into quarantine if I accidentally have an emotion in your direction, which, for the record, I'm not. I mean, look at me!"
"I'm looking," Jones says. "I'm not impressed."
"I'm a lawyer at a prestigious law firm," Foggy says. "They're talking about making me partner. I am officially on the up and up. I was on Etsy at 4:00 am and regretted a staggering zero percent of my life choices when I dropped 50 dollars on a keychain. I'm as far from maudlin as a human being can possibly get."
Jones snorts. "Yeah, you're doing real well for yourself. This place is a fucking hole in the wall." The bartender stops wiping down the counter to frown at them. Jones stares flatly back. "What? I didn't say it was a bad thing."
Foggy gives the bartender his most appeasing smile. "What my friend here means places like these have grit. Character! What's the point of drinking somewhere unless I can make a game out of trying to distinguish the indistinguishable stains? Really adds to the whole experience."
The bartender rolls their eyes and goes back to ignoring them. Jones raises her brows. A smirk curls the corner of her mouth. "Smooth."
"I wasn't just saying that," Foggy says, then amends when Jones gives him a dry look, "Well, okay, I kind of was just saying that, I really didn't want to get cut off, but I do genuinely love places like this." He stares down at his glass, sloshing the liquid around. His voice gets quieter. "Kind of reminds me of Josie's."
Jones groans. "Ugh, Nelson, what did I tell you?"
"Don't have feelings," Foggy says. "Or you don't do feelings, whatever, it's the same thing." When he looks up Jones is scrubbing a hand over her face. "Sorry."
"You should be," Jones says from between her fingers. She lowers them to grab and down her glass, mutters, "God, people drink to escape their lawyers. Me? I'm stuck babysitting them."
Foggy cracks a smile. "Hey, better me than Hogarth."
"Hogarth would drown herself in a vat of acid than show any weakness around me," Jones says. "It's why I occasionally kind of begrudgingly respect her. You, on the other hand, have cried about how much you love that blonde reporter."
"Karen," Foggy says. "You've met Karen. And I'm just really, really proud of her, okay?"
"Then cry about your feelings to her," Jones says, scowling. "We're not friends."
"You've let me rest my head on your firm, pointy shoulder," Foggy says. "We're kind of friends."
Jones' scowl intensifies. "No."
"Look, Jones, I don't make the rules." He pauses. "Speaking of, much as I dig this Maltese Falcon thing we've got going on, are we ever going to be on a first name basis?"
"You're a grown man who goes by Foggy," Jones says. "What do you think?"
"I live to hope, Jones. I live to hope."
Jones—Jessica—doesn't smile but she snags his drink, mumbling she's not drunk enough for this bullshit. He counts it as a win.
Jones gets them kicked out. Some asshole sidled up and was drunk and stupid enough to ignore the aura of 'don't fuck with me' Jones is projecting at all times. She introduced his face to the countertop. It was kind of amazing but also left them in somewhat of a crux.
"Question," Foggy says. "Is there a bar you haven't been banned for life and/or kicked out of?"
Jones makes a face. "Isn't this leading the witness or whatever the fuck?"
Foggy almost smiles. "I thought you didn't do legalese?"
"Shut up, Nelson," Jones says. Her mouth is a sharp line. It doesn't soften but she doesn't stalk off into the night either. "You're buying the next round."
He pauses. Jones is looking her version of expectant so half challenging, half disdainful. It's a bad idea. Really, really bad.
He's drunk enough to think why the hell not.
"Seriously," Jones deadpans when she sees the sign outside but makes her way indoors after the requisite eye-rolling.
Foggy trails behind, holding his breath, but the world stays mostly steady under his feet. Josie's is Josie's. It's stood long before he'd ever darkened its doors and it'll stand long after. It's comforting. It's anticlimactic.
He hits the bar while Jones grabs an open seat further down. Josie's not out front and Foggy looks around surreptitiously. His heart's in his throat. It leaps there at every flash of brown or red, but it's not—it's never—and Foggy can't put a name to the feeling twisting his stomach. Relief? Disappointment?
"He's not here," Josie says. Foggy startles. She's emerged from the back and is wiping her hands with a rag. "Hasn't been about just as long as you have."
"Oh." He wants to inexplicably apologize but swallows the urge. "Well, Josie, I'm sorry to have deprived you of this face for so long."
He smiles. It feels like a train-wreck. He keeps thinking: This was a mistake.
Foggy places his order and hightails it back to Jones, wondering what the hell he was trying to prove.
He ends up at Karen's. She's unfairly gorgeous considering the hour but that's not what has Foggy staring.
"Is that my shirt?" Foggy asks.
"This old thing?" Karen smiles serenely. "I can neither confirm nor deny."
"...it says Columbia on it," Foggy says.
"It might be your shirt," she says, shrugging her shoulder with a grin. The hem slips; her fingers straighten it back up. "I may or may not have forgotten to ever give it back."
"Thievery, Miss Page," Foggy says, then, "I'll allow it," just for the face he knows Karen will make. It does not disappoint.
"I've already had it for, like, a year," Karen says, moving to let him in then chaining the door behind them, "but thanks I guess."
"See, I never noticed," Foggy says, "on account of you being a master criminal. All this time I thought you were Vicki Vale but it turns out you were Catwoman."
"Excuse you," Karen says. "If I'm anyone I'm Lois Lane. Lois always gets the scoop."
"I would be Jimmy Olsen," Foggy agrees, joining Karen when she settles onto the floor, leaning their backs against the couch. She's been burning the midnight oil; all her research is scattered haphazardly across. If there's a method to her madness Foggy's yet to make sense of it. "Alright, Page, you've convinced me."
Karen's nose wrinkles. She brushes her hair behind her ear. "You've been drinking with Jessica again, haven't you?"
"Did the smell of cheap bourbon give me away?" Foggy asks.
"That," Karen says, "and your usage of my last name goes up a solid sixty percent whenever you spend time with her."
"You are good," Foggy says. He can't help but wrap an arm around her, giving a fond squeeze. "Lois Lane and Vicki Vale ain't got nothing on Karen Page."
Karen tips her head onto his shoulder, long hair brushing his collarbone. He can hear the smile in her voice. "Damn straight."
Foggy smiles into her hair. He needed this, he realizes. He can't say Jones was wrong about him being maudlin, not after Josie's. His sigh ruffles the top of her head and Karen shifts back to look at him, raising her eyebrows expectantly.
"Show me what you're working on," he says, instead, because they've got a schedule for these things, damn it. Or a routine at least. Drunken commiseration can happen when there are no deadlines afoot.
Karen frowns. "I'm tabling this because I feel like it's a vodka conversation," she says, "but I need you to know that was the worst deflection of all time and you're fooling absolutely no one."
"It's so nice how you let these things go unremarked upon," Foggy says.
Karen's gaze sharpens. "Foggy."
Foggy jostles her playfully. Her mouth doesn't soften. He sighs and lets her go, loving and hating the way she digs her heels in about these things. "Like you said it's a vodka conversation. Now c'mon, super sleuth. Jimmy Olsen has to start earning his keep."
Karen eyes him, gaze unreadable, then leans forward to snag one of her newspaper clippings. She flattens it out and looks at him. Her mouth softens, just a little, just enough.
"I don't know about Jimmy but I could sure use Franklin Nelson," she says.
"That asshole? He's just riding your coattails, trying to get that Pulitzer," Foggy says.
Karen draws her lip between her teeth, the way she does when she's trying to smother an irrepressible smile. "Fine," she says. "Foggy Nelson then."
"Oh, well, Foggy Nelson," he says, and she laughs. "You've got me, Karen," Foggy says, easily. "You've got me."
She really does.
(Vodka conversations go a little like this:
"And he pulls out the mask and stands there like it's supposed to, to—make up for anything. Ugh!" Karen's waving her glass around. It sloshes precariously.
"God, the mask," Foggy says. "The horns. Aren't they dumb?"
"So dumb," Karen says. "Like his face."
Foggy snickers. "Vicious, Page."
Karen sighs, mournfully. "I liked kissing it, though," she says. "For the record."
"Well," Foggy says. "Yeah."
Which probably came out way too emphatic, considering — considering.
Karen stares. "Huh," she says. "That's—hm." She wobbles as she gets up, then steadies. "More vodka?"
"More vodka," Foggy agrees.)
In the meantime they're grown ass adults with grown ass responsibilities which is what Foggy tells himself when he spends the day cleaning up after Jessica Jones.
"You should just change your first name to Laser Eyes," Foggy says, scrubbing a hand through his hair, "but then that would ruin all that nice alliteration."
Jones makes a scoffing noise. She crosses her arms over her chest. "You threaten one person with laser eyes and it follows you around the rest of your life."
"To be fair, it is pretty memorable," Foggy says. "Probably not as memorable as throwing a human being off scaffolding but close enough."
"He could fly," Jones says. "Apparently."
"Please tell me you knew that at the time."
Jones stays silent.
"Jones," Foggy says.
Jones looks shifty. Shiftier, Foggy amends. "I had a hunch."
"Oh my god," Foggy says.
Jones' eyes narrow. She twists her mouth. "Hey, he's alive, alright? Asshole lived to sue another day."
"Oh my god."
Karen really gets a kick out of that one. "You should give me her number," she says, nudging his hip. They're in his kitchen, rifling through his cabinets for clean silverware.
"Uh," Foggy says.
She rolls her eyes. "Not like that," she says, like Jessica Jones isn't completely her type. "She seems like a useful person to know, you know? What with my line of work."
"She routinely throws people through windows," Foggy says, "but sure."
"And off scaffolding," Karen says, clearly tickled pink.
"And off scaffolding," Foggy says, wearily.
Their search proves unfruitful. They end up stretched out on his floor, passing a bottle of wine back and forth, and Karen nearly spits hers back out when Foggy insists on reading her article in an old timey announcer voice.
"You could've had a future in serials, Mr. Nelson," Karen says. Her voice is breathy with laughter, fingers splayed over her mouth. She's flushed and victorious and one of the people he loves most in the world.
"You think?" Foggy asks, cushioning an arm behind his head. "Could be my new butcher story." He affects the voice again: "Ma, I don't want to be a butcher, I want to be in the movies!"
Karen snorts. "A voice that could set a million hearts aflutter."
"They'll be writing the studios, demanding to know who I am in no time."
Karen solemnly pats the hand resting on his stomach. Her eyes are bright. "Don't forget about me when you're a Hollywood heartthrob, okay?"
"You, Page?" Foggy says, smiling. "Never."
He can't forget the people he loves even if he wants to.
The bottle empties. Karen makes sad noises but makes zero effort to get up. Foggy squints up at the ceiling. "I have all this fancy new furniture," he says, slowly, "but we always end up on the floor. Why is that?"
"Closer to God," Karen says, nonsensically.
"I know you're not that drunk," Foggy says. "Karen Page is no lightweight."
Karen rolls over to face him. There's a strand of hair on her lips but that doesn't take away from the set of her mouth. "I will be once we break out the vodka."
Foggy freezes. "This isn't a vodka conversation. We had wine. We don't have wine in vodka conversations."
"Maybe I'm making this a vodka conversation," she says, like that's something you can just do. But then she's Karen Page. She doesn't bend for the world; the world bends for her.
"Okay, but how about this for an alternative," Foggy says. "We could not. Just throwing that out there."
"Foggy," Karen says, steely.
He sighs. He gets the vodka.
"I haven't actually seen your birth certificate," Foggy says a little while later, when the world has gone all fuzzy around the edges, "but I'm pretty sure your middle name is 'fuck the rules'. Karen Fuck The Rules Page."
"It's Caroline, actually," Karen says.
"Is it really," Foggy says.
"No," Karen says, grinning. "Not everyone has a middle name, Percival."
"Karen Caroline Page is sort of redundant," Foggy muses. Then, "It's Percy, not Percival. See, all this," he flaps a hand between them, "is just giving credence to your middle name actually being fuck the rules."
"We're getting off subject," she says, laughingly.
"We're exactly on subject," Foggy says. "We have a system, Karen. A system!"
It's like all the laughter goes out of her. She sighs. She takes a swig of vodka and tips her head back. "And how's that working out for us?"
Foggy's throat tightens. He swallows dryly. "Pretty well, I thought."
"You don't believe that," says Karen, quietly, but he does. He missed Matt like an arm or a leg but he was still getting on, still living. They both were.
He thinks about looking around Josie's, heart in his throat then his stomach, thinks about how Matt was everywhere and nowhere at all.
"I don't know," Foggy says. His throat is too tight. "I don't know anymore."
Karen's quiet for a long time. Foggy closes his eyes. They ache and he tells himself it's because the world is spinning. Phantom limb, he thinks. You can get used to it but does it ever really get better?
He'd hoped. But then he'd hoped for a lot of things. Disappointment and Foggy Nelson were old friends.
"I idealized him, you know," Karen says, finally. "Or he idealized me. We were...playing at normal, I guess." She laughs, hollowly. "But he was still my friend, before anything. Now he's not even that much."
Foggy swallows. He swallows again. "Yeah."
It's okay to still love him, Foggy doesn't say. He didn't even know if it was true, for her or for him.
She touches his arm. Foggy opens his eyes. Her mouth is thin. "He's not a ghost, Foggy," she says. "Even if he feels like one."
Foggy thinks. He thinks and thinks and thinks some more but the decision was already half made that night with Karen.
He's already hit Josie's. Might as well go all in on the Nelson and Murdock Misery Tour.
He makes jokes in his head about commemorative t-shirts but it's a punch to the throat to swing by the old building and not see their sign outside. Foggy breathes through it. It's over. It's been over, but it still feels like more of an end than putting all his things in a box and looking at Matt's face for the last time, half hoping, half dreading Matt would ask him to stay. He didn't. Of course he didn't. The door clicked dryly behind him, and he made his way down the hall, onto the street, and his brain one, two blocks down was white noise of: This is it.
This is it, Foggy thinks nonsensically. He shakes himself out of it. Idiot, he thinks, but still heads on in, because in addition to being dumb he is also a glutton for punishment.
There's nothing. No new shitty handwritten sign, no Matt Murdock: Attorney At Law. He peers through the dirty window and for all that he knew there'd be no Karen, no clients waiting to pay their way in food, for all that Nelson and Murdock has died a symbolic death twice over, a part of Foggy keeps clinging to hope when there's none left to spare.
It's stupid. When will he learn?
He jiggles the knob but it doesn't give and lockpicking is more Karen's speed. He sighs, leans his head against the glass. It's cool against his forehead, and he imagines the door giving way, imagines Matt standing on the other side. It would've been awful but it'd be more than he could ever glean from Daredevil sightings online.
Foggy's insides are rolling.
Matt, he thinks. Matt, Matt, Matt.
"Nope," Jones says, five seconds after he asks. "No way."
"Well, when you've given it so much consideration," Foggy says, not even making to get up. The lighting in Jones' office is dismal. There's one lamp, casting shadows over her face, and his head and eyes ache.
Jones twists her mouth at him. "I have a policy, Nelson."
"And I respect that, I do. It's just—" He sighs, scrubs a hand over his face. He's so tired of wondering. "It's complicated."
"I didn't ask for your relationship status on Facebook," Jones says, flatly.
"Look, I'll pay triple your rate if that's what it takes," Foggy says, "though you can't deny you owe me a favor or two. Need I say: scaffolding." Jones continues looking deeply unimpressed and Foggy decides to go for broke. "Jones. Jessica. This isn't a Google is your friend thing here. Believe me, it'd be so much easier if it were. I just. I need." To know he's okay, Foggy thinks. The words stick in his throat. He swallows painfully around them, hands flexing over his knees. "You're the only person I trust to do this."
Jones leans back in her chair, taking a swig of bourbon, gesturing with the neck of the bottle. "What about Blondie? She's a regular Nancy Drew."
"It wouldn't be fair to her," Foggy says. "Hell, this isn't fair to him. But I can't exactly pop over to his place like 'hey, just wanted to see you've been gainfully employed since the dissolution of our firm slash friendship.'"
Jones searches his gaze, quiet for a too long moment, the only sound Jones' nails tapping against the side of the glass. It's punctuated by a loud sigh and Jones looking up at the ceiling as if to entreat God for answers before rolling her eyes and taking another pull from the bottle. "Fine. I'll see what your ex-boyfriend is up to, but only so you'll be a marginally less pathetic excuse of a drinking partner."
"Oh, so we're partners now," Foggy says, so relieved he doesn't even argue the ex-boyfriend designation. "So much for coincidentally imbibing alcohol in the same space."
"Don't push your luck, Nelson," Jones says. "And don't ever call me by my first name again. I threw up in my mouth a little."
"Yeah, I felt weird about it too," Foggy agrees, then pauses. "Just to be clear, you're doing this out of the kindness of your heart and not for monetary gain, right?"
Jones looks at him like he's an idiot.
"Right," Foggy murmurs. "So, triple your rate then?"
"Jessica Jones wants you," the tinny voice of his assistant comes over the line.
"Thanks, Emily," Foggy says. "You can send her in once we wrap things up."
Marci raises her eyebrows, leaning back on her hands. They've been discussing a case and she's decided to take over half of his desk. "Did you hear that? She wants you."
"My sex appeal is undeniable," Foggy says, "but not what she meant. Jones could literally break me in half. There's no guarantee she won't, especially if she finds out we ever talked about this."
"See, now I'm just more intrigued," Marci says. "The possibilities are endless. In the bedroom, I mean."
"Marci, no," Foggy says, and she rolls her eyes at him.
"Live a little, Foggy Bear," Marci says. "I know all evidence suggests to the contrary but you can't subsist on whiskey and pining alone."
"Vodka, actually," Foggy mutters.
"Great, now you're a Russian novel," Marci says.
"I don't think I have enough names for that," Foggy says. "Also, you know, my noble Irish heritage."
Marci gives a long suffering sigh and tugs on his hair. It's getting long again and Foggy winces, but his heart swells, looking at Marci, at the smile she can't quite hide in her eyes. You've been really good to me, he thinks, and that shouldn't be as monumental as it feels, but it is. It is.
Marci makes a face. "What's that look for?"
"Oh, just having an emotion or two," Foggy says, casually.
"Gross," Marci says, leaning over to kiss his forehead before pushing off his desk, sharp and sweet all at once.
"Maybe you should talk to Jones," Foggy says while Marci smooths her skirt over her thighs. "You already have so much in common."
Marci smirks. "Oh, we wouldn't be doing much talking."
The door slams open and there's Jones in all her disgruntled, leather jacket clad glory, a harried looking Emily wringing her hands over Jones' shoulder.
"I'm so sorry," Emily says. "I told her you had important business to discuss, Miss Jones just wouldn't listen-"
"Important business, my ass," Jones says. "I know a gossip session when I see one."
"It's almost like you're a private investigator or something," Marci says. "We'll have to braid each other's hair another time, Foggy Bear."
"I do a mean fish braid," Foggy informs Jones, trying not to laugh at the look on her face as Marci heads for the door, smirking at Jones on the way out.
Emily lingers, looking uncertain, and Foggy smiles at her. "We're good here, Em, honestly."
Emily closes the door behind her, but Jones doesn't move to drop into a seat, just stands there with her arms crossed and mouth pursed.
"I did some digging on your boy," Jones says. "He's not 'gainfully employed.' Hasn't been since your firm went under and even then you weren't rolling in the big bucks, were you?"
He's already sitting down. His hair gets into his face when he looks down at the handles of his chair, at his hands clamped tight over them.
Jones is still looking at him; he can tell. There's a palpable sharpness. Foggy breathes through his nose.
In for a penny, Nelson, he thinks. He unclenches his hands, gives them a pass over his trouser clad thighs. He wets his lips and flicks his eyes back up.
"Not really," Foggy says. Jones' stare is even and he wonders if his voice sounds thick or if it's just him. "We did a lot of cases pro bono."
"Hn," Jones says. He can't get a read on her. "Well, that law degree might as well be a paper weight, he's getting that much use out of it. Still making his rent and utilities on time, though, so he must have money squirrelled away."
Her voice is as sardonic as ever but there's an edge that makes Foggy take stock of Jones again. He feels himself firm.
"That's bullshit and we both know it," Foggy says. "Tell me what you found."
Jones uncrosses her arms. "Shit wasn't adding up. I can only dig so far so I got some help from Del Toro. She used to be FBI," she says, before Foggy can ask. "Turns out Murdock's come into some money. An inheritance. Some Greek ambassador's daughter died under mysterious circumstances. It was all very hush-hush."
His ears aren't ringing. The world isn't any louder or quieter than before but Foggy's stomach sinks and his heart climbs up his throat and he's creasing his very nice pants.
Elektra is dead. It changes everything. It changes nothing.
Doesn't it?
"Shit," Foggy says, rubbing his eyes. He keeps his hands there. He feels suddenly, impossibly old.
"You knew her then?"
"Yeah." Except not really, not as anything more than Matt's college heartbreak. Elektra Natchios, Greek girl. Elektra Natchios, ninja. Elektra Natchios, dead. "Yeah, I knew her."
He sighs into his hands before letting them fall away then nearly jumps out of his skin. Jones has come around the side of his desk. He turns his chair to face her and she braces her hands on either side of it, Foggy so in a state of what the fuck he almost misses when Jones brings her mouth to his ear.
"I'm not an idiot," she says, lowly, and he jerks slightly, more from the feel of her hair on his cheek than anything else. "Unlike Daredevil I've got two working eyes."
His eyes widen, his right hand flexing on the edge of his desk. Jones pulls away, leans her hip against it. She folds her arms and smirks at him.
"I can't believe you're mooning over someone who runs around in fetish gear," Jones says, shaking her head. "Christ, Nelson."
Foggy's quiet. He thinks about all the ways you can love a person, and hate them, and not really know them at all. "Yeah," he says. "Me either."'
He calls Karen later. He's been home about a hour and his apartment, for all that it's no longer the approximate size of a shoebox, feels lonely. He's shucked his suit jacket and loosened his tie, phone to his ear and back to the refrigerator, drinking beer to stave off the thoughts he doesn't want to be thinking, the questions he can't help but go over and over again in his head. He's tired. He listens to the dial tone and just wants to turn off his brain.
Karen picks up on the fourth ring. "Foggy?" she says. "Everything okay?"
I just needed to hear your voice, he doesn't say. He smiles even though she can't see it. "Just wanted to see what's new in the world of Karen Page, intrepid reporter and future winner of the Pulitzer prize."
Her laugh comes down the line. It sounds tired. He hears a door open and close. She's still at the Bulletin, probably. "Only if Franklin Nelson doesn't take credit for all my work."
"Like I said, dude's an asshole."
Her laugh is a little brighter, a little more real, and Foggy presses his phone more firmly against his ear, like he can magically be closer to it. He worries about her.
"Huh," he says, when Karen tells him about the story she's working on, some new drug on the street called MGH, and how she's apparently enlisted Jones. "So that's why you're Blondie now. I just thought she was pretending she didn't know your name again."
"Well, you did give me her number," Karen says. Her voice sounds like a smile. Foggy wonders but both Karen and Jones have a habit of playing their cards close to their chest.
"Yeah, but she barely picks up for me and I'm her lawyer," Foggy says. "And she's never given me a nickname, much less even use the one I go by in normal, everyday life. You have a way about you, Page."
"So do you, Nelson," Karen says, warmly. "Seriously, Foggy, Jessica wouldn't drink with you so much if she didn't like you just a little."
"Pretty sure that's the alcoholism," Foggy says. His bottle of beer dangles between his thighs and he picks at the label, more than aware of his hypocrisy. "Not that I have a lot of room to talk on that front."
"No vodka, though?"
Foggy brings it to his mouth. It doesn't taste like anything. He lowers the bottle, puts it next to his loafers on the floor. If he turns his head to the right, he can see his reflection in the window of his stove.
"Nope," he says. It's symbolic, maybe. He keeps looking at himself, thinks: I look how I feel. "No vodka."
They shoot the shit for a little while longer and then Karen apologizes, saying she really needs to get back to work. His call screen blinks up at him. He hesitates but thumbs his phone off.
The emptiness creeps back in.
Maybe, he thinks, closing his eyes and tipping his head back. Maybe, maybe.
All roads lead back here in the end.
"Foggy," Matt says, and there's a whole world in there, no, an entire universe, and for a moment Foggy feels the world like how Matt does, like there's too much to take in, parse out.
"Matt," Foggy says, eyes flickering over Matt's face. His mouth. The column of his throat. The bruise yellowing over his cheek. Matt looks like himself, mostly. He looks like someone Foggy doesn't know how not to love. "I should've texted, probably."
"It's fine," Matt says, hastily. "Do you...are you..." His throat works and Foggy can't help but stare. "Do you want to come in?"
"Yeah." Foggy swallows, dropping his gaze. "That'd be...yeah."
He edges past, heading straight for the couch before the silence can stretch itself out even more. There he waits, heart in his throat, until he hears the door click shut. Matt, after a beat, goes for the armchair and his sweats slide up, mismatched socks poking out. The left is boring and striped while the right has tiny dinosaurs on them. I bought those socks, Foggy thinks. It's stupid. It's painful and abrupt. He watches Matt settle down heavily, almost like he's favoring his side. Foggy doesn't know. He doesn't get to anymore.
"In the interest of full disclosure I hired a PI," Foggy says, like ripping off a band-aid. "Well, I already knew the PI, and she kind of owed me half a dozen favors, but I ended up paying a truly obscene amount of money anyway."
There's a long pause. Matt reaches a hand up to his face, like he's going to fidget with his glasses, but brings it back down over his leg, making a fist. "Why?"
"Trust me, if you knew her, you would not be asking that question—"
"Foggy," Matt says, quietly.
Foggy sighs, leaning onto his knees. He wishes he could see Matt's eyes. "Closure, maybe."
Matt's fist clenches and unclenches. His lips press tightly together. "And did you find it?" he asks. "Closure?"
Foggy's lips quirk grimly. "I'm here, aren't I?"
It's too honest. It's not honest enough.
"Yeah," Matt says, softly, wondrously; "you are."
And Foggy—could kiss him. It's not about what's right or what's fair or even what he deserves. He just could. He thinks about a hundred different times and a hundred different places. He thinks about the hole in his shoulder and the one in his life. Action and consequence. We all have choices, he thinks. Matt made his. So did Karen and Foggy.
For better or worse, he makes another.
"I care about you," Foggy says. "That's why."
Matt bites his lip hard. "I'm not—you don't—" His mouth trembles then firms. "You're better off without me."
Foggy huffs out a laugh. "Almost made it through a whole conversation without you pushing someone away because of your martyr complex," he says. "That's got to be a new record."
"Foggy—"
"No, listen, Matt," Foggy says. "This isn't me letting you off the hook. You were an asshole. You didn't show up, time and time again. And yeah, maybe you had weird ninja shit, but that doesn't excuse the lying, and it doesn't excuse acting like the people you love are an inconvenience to you. That's bullshit. Me and Karen deserved better. But I don't know, Matt." His eyes are burning. "Better is starting to feel relative at this point."
Matt's chin is wobbling now. "You're fine," he says. "You've been fine. You have Karen and Marci and that Jessica Jones person—"
"If you know about Jones then you know about the vast quantities of alcohol I've been consuming," Foggy says. "That's pretty far from fine, buddy."
It just trips out, strange in his mouth but not as bitter as it would have been a month or two ago. Matt's face crumples. His glasses are fogging up, his breath all raw and shuddery, and Foggy's had enough of distance. He rounds the table to perch in front of Matt, hesitating before placing a tentative hand on Matt's knee.
"Matt," Foggy says, gently, feeling Matt tremble under his palm. "Hey. Matty."
Matt breaks. Foggy gathers him up against him, moving his hand from Matt's knee to the back of his head. Matt's glasses dig into Foggy's collarbone. It's uncomfortable as hell but Foggy feels more like himself than he has in a long time, more like a person and not just the edges of one.
"I don't want to be alone," Matt confesses hoarsely once he's all cried out. He's eased back but he's got a hold of Foggy's shirt like he's afraid he's going anywhere.
"Then don't be," Foggy says. "Karen said you're not a ghost. Maybe it's time you stop acting like one." His fingers press against Matt's jaw, catching and dragging under his stubble. "Maybe start with a razor," he suggests. "And a day job. We didn't nearly kill ourselves trying to pass the bar for you to backflip off rooftops in broad daylight."
Matt turns into Foggy's fingers. "There's a little more finesse to it than that."
"Oh, sorry," Foggy says, taking off his glasses and watching Matt's eyes flutter closed when he thumbs away the dried tears. There's a wrinkle that goes from Matt's eye all the way down his cheek. Foggy loves that wrinkle. "Blah, blah, parkour shit, blah, blah, super senses, blah, blah, ninjas."
Matt laughs. It sounds surprised and more than a little wet. You're allowed to be a person too, Foggy thinks. He's told Matt before. He'll tell him again.
Matt opens his eyes, looking sad and hopeful and tender all at once. "I miss you."
Foggy doesn't say: Don't. Foggy doesn't say: I'm right here. He knows what Matt means.
"C'mon," he says. "Let's get lunch."
Lunch turns to drinks turns to something almost like easiness between them. There's a lot to talk about. Almost too much. Hurts to hash and questions to be raised. A big box labelled 'handle with care'. But now there's this: Matt, and Foggy, and Matt's breath skittering over Foggy's pulse outside his apartment.
"I can't believe you hired a private investigator," Matt murmurs, sounding absurdly pleased.
Foggy slides a hand over Matt's hip. It's a balance thing. "Hey, I at least had a stalker surrogate," he says. "Lest you forget full naming Jones. I never even full name Jones and it's an impressive one. Very film noir."
"Alliterative," Matt agrees, then gets his fingers in Foggy's hair, brushing his mouth over his. It tastes like whiskey and only slightly of regret.
"I'm about 99.9% sure she is going to hate you."
Matt laughs into his mouth.
They come together like this.