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Foggy and Kirsten are awake by the time Matt gets home. He can hear them arguing cheerfully over how strong Foggy’s making the coffee from three blocks away.
“A spoon’s gonna stand up in that sludge by the time you’re done, Foggy.”
“You drink my coffee every morning without complaining. Just because you’re actually awake to watch the magic happen this time doesn’t mean you get to critique the process.”
“Forgive me if I’d like to avoid having three heart attacks before lunch.”
“Please. We both know I’m not the one in this household giving people heart attacks.”
Matt pushes open the kitchen window and crouches on the sill. “I thought my ears were burning.”
“When aren’t they?” Kirsten asks as Matt slips through the window, pushing his cowl back as he goes. She’s got her hands full at the stove, the smell of scrambled eggs and tangy goat cheese fighting to make itself known under a cloud of Nelson-strength coffee, but she turns her cheek up for a kiss and Matt obliges. “How’d it go?”
“Fine,” Matt says, then pauses to yawn so hard his jaw creaks. “The stakeout went later than I would have liked, but the dealers folded fast once they actually showed up. I take it you got my texts?”
Kirsten nods. “Isn’t technology wonderful?”
“Yes, dear,” Matt and Foggy chorus in unexpected unison, and Matt grins. Kirsten laid down some very firm ground rules when the three of them moved in together, and one of them was that Matt keep them in the loop with his crimefighting schedule. He’s expected to call if it’s an emergency, no matter what time it is, but if he just needs to let them know that something’s keeping him out late - like, say, a gang attempting to sell their latest batch of hook, an unfortunately aptly-named Atlantean drug that keeps hitting coastal black markets in increasingly nasty iterations - he can send a text, which won’t wake them up.
Foggy says it beats worrying himself into yet another ulcer. Kirsten says Foggy’s a dope for not having made Matt employ this system years ago.
The toaster and the coffeemaker announce that they’ve finished their jobs at the same time, and Matt pours a cup of coffee - he stays out of the argument, but he’s of a mind with Foggy that the stronger the better - while Foggy stacks the finished toast on a plate, blowing on his lightly-singed fingers when he’s done.
“Hey, where’s my kiss?” Foggy asks, and Matt bends to kiss the proffered cheek, then wrinkles his nose at how scratchy it is. “Yes, you princess, I’m going to shave after breakfast. Here.” Foggy hands Matt the plate of toast and steals his coffee cup. “Go set the table. You can have coffee later, you’re taking the morning off to sleep.”
“But - ”
“No buts! The firm of Nelson, Murdock, and McDuffie can handle one morning with just Nelson and McDuffie. We don’t need you snoring all over our clients.”
“Says the only snorer in the apartment,” Kirsten points out.
“Matt says it’s cute.”
“Matt’s buttering you up.”
“Matt pleads the fifth,” Matt says, and brings the toast to the table.
By the time he’s got condiments and silverware arranged, the kettle is whistling, and Kirsten is dishing a third of an omelet onto each of their plates. Foggy pours boiling water over a teabag and the scent of lemongrass blooms in the air.
“Here,” he says, bringing it over to Matt. “It’s not coffee but maybe it’ll do something for those bags under your eyes anyway.”
“Kirsten, Foggy’s implying I’m not pretty,” Matt says.
“Eat your eggs, boys,” she replies, her voice overwhelmingly fond, and her bare foot taps Matt’s calf under the table.
The touch is reassuring, grounding. Matt’s a grown man and should know perfectly well that this isn’t a dream, but most days he still can’t quite believe that he gets to have this: Foggy’s heart beating healthy and strong beside him, loving voices to come home to, a mask that’s about a symbol instead of a secret. It’s not always easy, because Matt doesn’t know how not to pick the hard path, but somehow, with all his faults, he still gets Foggy and Kirsten both, and that’s enough to make the hard parts more than worth it.
He’s nodding into his teacup by the time breakfast is done, and Kirsten ruffles his hair as she and Foggy clear the table. “You’re on dish duty once you wake up, Magoo. Go hit the showers.”
Matt mumbles an agreement and sleepwalks through his shower, barely registering the bathroom door swinging open and shut so that Foggy can shave and Kirsten can fill the room with the assorted faint chemical scents of makeup. He all but collapses into bed afterwards, hair still damp, and Foggy chuckles from where he’s adjusting his tie in the mirror before tugging the sheets over Matt’s bare ass.
“No, really, Foggy, I can still go to work even though I haven’t slept in thirty-six hours,” he mimics.
“I’m,” Matt says, and then is too tired to remember what the rest of that sentence was going to be.
“Solid argument, counselor.” Foggy does something with Matt’s alarm clock, then bends and kisses his mouth. “Pick up lunch on your way to the office, would you? Cheese fries would not go amiss”
“Mmf.”
“Or you could get us something edible,” Kirsten says, walking in with a clack of heels. She leans against Foggy, and Matt has the sense that they’re looking down at him. He wouldn’t be able to tell for sure any better if he opened his eyes, so he doesn’t bother. “They’re so precious when they’re asleep, aren’t they?”
“Our little vigilante. I’m so proud.”
Matt musters up enough energy to extend his middle finger. Kirsten laughs and leans down to kiss him too. “Sleep well, baby. See you at lunch.”
“Love you,” Matt manages, an all-encompassing mumble that’s equally for Kirsten, Foggy, and the pillow he’s faceplanted in. There’s a soft hand in his hair, footsteps receding, and Matt lets himself drift as the front door shuts.
No, he’s not sure how he’s managed to earn this life. But he’s going to do everything he possibly can to keep it.