Work Text:
Foggy watches as the rain rhythmically hits his kitchen window. He desperately dreads going out of the house, but it has little to do with the weather. For the past year he has been rather reluctant to do anything at all. He is strongly encouraged to try and lead a life, something about ensuring an easy transition.
As he absent mindedly stirs the cheap instant coffee powder in his generic white ikea mug, he seriously debates calling in sick. But if he stays in the house it will only give him more time to wallow around in self pity and eventually fall asleep on the couch and that is something that he definitely does not feel like doing anymore. It was vindicating at first, back when he thought that this whole thing might only last a couple of months, but as the reality of his new life began to settle in he decided that he cannot spend every waking moment in misery. No matter how tempting it might seem.
He pours the coffee down the drain without finishing it and pulls on his suit jacket. It hangs off him awkwardly, noticeably indicating the weight he has lost while stuck here. He makes it towards the door, slips into his coat, grabs an umbrella and quickly exits before he could start second guessing himself.
Umbrella does little to save him from the rain that seems to have worsened since a few hours ago and he still arrives at the office soaking wet.
“You’re late, Williams,” is the first thing he hears as he sets his own umbrella into the row of drying ones near the entrance.
He raises his eyes to see Mike, a man who seems way too young to be a manager and yet he pulls it off.
“Well, clearly it is the great flood out there,” Foggy shrugs, “I think that is a good excuse”.
He hears a snort of muffled laughter and quickly looks to the side, where Quin chuckles in her cubicle. She was doing too much for this specific joke.
“Just get to work,” Mike sighs.
Foggy hangs his coat in the closet and takes his place behind the desk that has already managed to get a hearty pile of printed out bank statements, all of which Foggy would have to double check. The only reason he is here is because he had the nerve to mention an accounting class he took in Columbia for an extra credit when doing a general profile with one of the agents assigned to him. He should have told them about pottery instead. Who knows, maybe he could be sitting in a cozy art studio, making teapots and not flipping through endless paperwork.
He has had to get back into the habit of tuning out the office space noise. It has been years since he had more than two coworkers and the constant buzz and chatter was getting on his nerves at first. Luckily, it is easy to get yourself buried in work. Quite literally, because the stack of papers on his desk keeps growing exponentially throughout the day.
He is less than halfway through the stack, when Quin peeks out from behind her own cubicle.
“Everett,” She calls out in a hushed whisper.
Foggy is actually proud of how quickly he reacts to the name. He lets out a quick hum and turns to face her.
“I am going for a coffee,” She smiles. “Do you want to join me?”
She is nice to him. In the year that he has been stuck here, Quin might have become the closest thing he has to a friend. Of course, it is hard to call someone a friend, when you cannot even tell them your name. It’s thoughts like this that make Foggy believe that Matt would have killed it at this witness protection thing. Foggy is much less comfortable lying about his entire life.
The break room is sparsely furnished. Foggy takes a seat behind the round table that could only ever fit no more than three people at once. Probably some kind of percussion against people massively going on breaks. Quin hands him a basic white mug.
“Two sugars,” She states.
“Thanks,” He smiles and takes a sip.
The coffee here comes from an expensive looking espresso machine and not an old pot that had changed three office spaces and that only Karen knew how to operate correctly so that coffee would turn out pleasantly aromatic and not completely burned. This coffee is good. But nowhere near as good as Karen’s has always been.
“So, any plans for the weekend?” Quin asks, taking a seat next to Foggy.
“The usual,” He shrugs. “Get a full night’s sleep, finally do the laundry, maybe catch up on ‘The Pitt’”. He spaces out for a second, staring out into the distance, before he remembers what the appropriate, polite response to this should be. “And you?”
“Oh, actually, yeah, I don’t have much planned this weekend either,” Quin chirps, and Foggy struggles to pay attention to every word, because occasionally she trails off into complete nonsense. “I suppose what I’m saying is, would you like to have dinner with me?”
He stares at her with round eyes that probably give away everything he feels at the moment. “Oh,” He breathes out, the corners of his mouth stretching out into a wobbly smile. His mind races, trying to come up with an excuse that will not make him sound like a complete asshole. “Quin, look, you’re… great,” He starts, unsure. “But I’m not… I’m not looking for… a relationship?” He hates how pathetic his voice sounds and how he lands on a hesitant question instead of a statement. The problem is, he likes Quin and, maybe, under any other circumstances, he would be happy to go out with her. But he can’t, not when he could be going home any day now.
He notices her ears get increasingly more red with each word and he wishes the earth could open and swallow him whole.
“Oh my god, I didn’t even…” She stutters, “I mean I thought… And then I…You know what? Nevermind!” She grabs her coffee and walks out of the break room. “Have a great day!” She chirps at him and hurriedly pushes the door open.
Foggy is left alone, staring blankly into the distance. Momentarily, he lifts his gaze up at the TV. A young man with a fake smile is warning about the oncoming heavy rain that will probably last all weekend, so drivers should be extremely careful.
The rest of the day passes by in a blur. Foggy allows himself to drown in the paperwork and not pay much attention to the standard flow of the office work. He doesn’t even think about New York that much. When five PM rolls around, he cannot leave his desk fast enough. He tucks the unfinished paperwork under a seashell shaped paper weight, a gift from an older brother according to the legend, when in reality, Foggy bought it for himself to give Everett Williams at least a little bit of personality.
He meets Quin’s gaze as she brushes past him on her way out but the smile she shoots back is painfully forced.
He stops at a Thai place just outside the office because he is more than certain that he will be in no mood to cook dinner once he gets home. The commute happens on autopilot. He does his best to keep the paper takeout bag protected under his coat, but even so it ends up soaking wet. He just hopes that the plastic lid was enough to keep his noodles safe.
He tosses the takeout box into the microwave as soon as he gets home and as it whirs he opens up his laptop. Well, not technically his laptop. He is not allowed to log into any of his preexisting accounts, anything that he does online has to be done from a secured Wi-Fi network and only under his newly assumed alias. The rain drums against his kitchen window as he does what he does every night. The headlines from New York seem increasingly worse every day, Foggy is used to that. What he is not used to is seeing Matt’s name in the articles.
‘In a shocking turn of events, Matt Murdock, a blind lawyer from Hell’s Kitchen, reveals his identity as Daredevil’.
Foggy feels his vision swim. Anxiety settles in the pit of his stomach, but not just that. He is angry at Matt. Really furious. There is a video attached to the article, footage of Matt juggling his cane around in the courtroom. Foggy wants to reach through the screen and slap him across the face. Whatever his play here is, it cannot be worth the risk he is putting himself under. Matt might be an idiot but he has to understand that, right? He wishes he could call Karen, she can knock some sense into him.
He buries his head in his hands. He should have been in that court room, even if it was just to punch Matt in his stupid face.
…
He dreams of ambulance noises and distant screams. He hears Matt screaming in pain somewhere above him and he feels Karen’s grip on his shoulders. And when he wakes up he feels the sharp pain in his chest. The alarm clock is ringing and forces him to tune out any unwanted memories. He has an hour before agent Pullman comes to check up on him. He manages to get a shower and cook a pretty decent omelette in that time. He is still not sure how a conspicuously looking man showing up at his doorstep every Saturday morning is supposed to make Foggy fly under the radar, but he has stopped questioning the motions about a month in.
“In the last week has anyone questioned your identity?” Agent Pullman sits behind the kitchen table and doesn’t even pretend to be interested in the cup of black coffee that Foggy offered him.
“No,” Foggy replies shortly, his gaze glued to the TV set that he insisted on keeping turned on, even if it was on minimal volume. Just in case Matt’s name appears in the news.
“In the last week has anyone expressed unusual interest in your past?” The agent continues robotically.
“No,” Foggy shakes his head.
There might still be a way to undo this. Matt is a blind man, that alone is enough to give the jury a reasonable doubt in his identity as Daredevil and possibly save him from jail. The question then, of course, is why he would lie about it so publicly. No, there has to be a solution, Foggy just had to find it. There has to be a loophole.
“Mr Nelson?” Pullman calls out and suddenly Foggy remembers that he hasn’t answered any questions in a while now. He turns to face the voice.
“I understand that you have been distraught by the news regarding your friend, but it cannot influence your life here in any way,” The agent’s voice is calm and silky, not at all suitable for his line of work.
“I’m supposed to sit back and watch my friend throw his life away,” Foggy mumbles, “Let me at least feel a little bit bad about it if I can’t do anything else”.
Pullman regards him with a long stare. “Your safety here guarantees the safety of your friends,” He states, a rehearsed line that’s been repeated to Foggy over and over. He is starting to doubt just how true it is.
After Pullman leaves Foggy spends another hour or so constantly monitoring the news. Matt testified against Fisk, that’s what this whole charade has been for apparently. The jury was on his side, but Foggy couldn’t help but feel like the other shoe was about to drop. He has to physically force himself away from the screen and try to get at least some things done around the house. He tosses his laundry into the washing machine and changes his bedsheets. He does the dishes that have been sitting in his sink since last night and he even makes himself a semi decent lunch.
The sun is already starting to set, when Foggy settles on the couch. He has done such a great job at distracting himself that when he turns on the TV, he forgets about the news channel that hasn’t been turned off ever since he moved here. He sees a picture of Matt first and his brain immediately jumps to the worst possible scenario before a brunette reporter starts speaking.
“Matthew Murdock, also known as the masked vigilante Daredevil has been arrested tonight,” She says in a calm, measured tone. Completely inappropriate for the situation at hand.
Foggy tunes out her voice as she continues to list the convictions that Matt is facing. He feels sick, his chest is being squeezed by some unseen force and it seems like he is bleeding out once again, unable to take a breath in. He runs his hands through his hair, yanking at it slightly as he tries to get himself back to reality. He desperately needs to talk to someone who understands the weight of the situation. That is the one thought that finally clears up his thoughts.
He cannot use his phone, because it is constantly monitored by the FBI. He needs a phone that cannot be traced back to him. The office has a stationary phone.
He rushes out of the house, into the cold pouring rain, pulling his coat closer around himself in the absence of an umbrella. The area is, of course, extremely empty. He is the only idiot who has decided to leave his worm house on a Saturday night in the middle of a storm. He makes it past the rows of houses and finally makes it onto the main street, the train stop is only a minute away from here.
He almost forgets to turn off the alarm as he makes it inside. Luckily, every employee has a key and a security code. He knows that most people use it to finish some work during the weekends, but Foggy has never been that dedicated to this company. This is the first time he is visiting this place outside of work hours.
He doesn’t bother turning on the main lights and makes it straight to the reception desk. The stationery phone is hidden under the desk and Foggy quickly dials the number with shaking hands. His heart is hammering in his chest as he hopes that Karen did not change her number.
The phone beeps for ten agonizing seconds, before he hears breathing on the other side.
“Hello?” Karen sounds tired and worn down, but it is her, undoubtedly her.
“Karen!” He exclaims, relief flooding his voice. “It’s me! It’s Foggy!”
For a few moments there is only silence. “What is this?” There is thinly veiled anger in her voice now. “You think this is funny?”
“No, Karen, you have to listen…” Foggy scrambles, but is interrupted by the beeps on the other end.
Foggy quickly dials the number again and this time Karen picks up almost immediately. “Karen, please…” Foggy starts.
“You call me again, I’m calling the cops,” Karen states and hangs up the phone.
Foggy stays with the phone still pressed to his ear for a few more moments, wondering if he should try calling again. Ultimately, he puts it down and heads out of the office. He cannot be mad at Karen, of course. But some part of him is terrified that this short phone call was the last time he ever heard her voice.
On Sunday, he allows himself to sleep in and wakes up way past lunch time. Yesterday’s almost-talk with Karen has knocked out any motivation out of him. So, when he gets out of bed, he makes himself a coffee with way too much sugar and flops onto the couch in his living room. He turns on the TV and clicks away from the news channel. Eventually, he lands on a rerun of Friends, safe enough to turn his mind off for now. He slowly wakes himself up over the course of three episodes before he decides to turn the TV off. He stares into the black screen for way longer than he would have liked. He hates being useless, he hates having nothing to do and he hates this house.
This is what he is thinking about when a barely audible rustle brings him back to reality. It almost sounds like a key turning inside the lock in his door. Agent Pullman shouldn’t be coming back for another week. Foggy feels his heartbeat fasten with adrenaline as he gets up from the couch. There is a baseball bat hidden behind his TV and Foggy promptly reaches for it. Paranoia? Maybe. But after you get shot by a psycho killer and recover from a clinical death, paranoia is not only probable, it is expected. The weird rustling noise continues as someone desperately tries to enter his house. Maybe some drunk kid is coming home from a Saturday rager and got confused about which house is his. That thought dissipates just as quickly as it came as his front door creeks open.
Foggy presses himself against the wall, separating the living room from the corridor and does his best to calm his rapidly beating heart. He definitely hears light footsteps that are getting closer and closer. Once the intruder is ready to turn the corner and enter the living room, Foggy swings the bat. It stops midair, as the intruder catches it and in the next moment, Foggy feels a kick to his stomach that promptly lands him on the floor. He hears the bat clatter to the ground and only then does he allow himself to actually look at the intruder’s face.
“Jessica?” He chokes, still out of breath from the powerful kick.
Jessica Jones stares at him from above, clearly as surprised as he is. “Holy shit,” She breathes out. Quickly, she grabs him by the hand and pulls him back to his feet without much effort. “You greet all your guests like this?” She nods towards the bat that is laying uselessly on the ground.
She looks exactly the same. Even the stupid leather jacket that she never takes off apparently. In a momentary decision, Foggy lurches forward and pulls her into a hug. She lets out a noise or surprise and her hands linger awkwardly above his back.
“There, there,” She gives him a quick pat.
“Sorry,” Foggy says quickly as he pulls back. “I missed you”.
“Yeah, clearly,” She scoffs.
“What are you doing here?” He asks.
“Well, yesterday Karen told me and said that some idiot was calling her under your name and that I should probably look into it,” She states “Once I traced the number it was easy to find a certain Everett Williams who coincidentally started working there about the same time as Foggy Nelson died,” She says, “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”
“You got all of that from a phone number?” Foggy stares at her dumbfoundedly.
“I also bribed an FBI agent,” She shrugs, “He is definitely losing his job”.
Seeing Jessica Jones, such a clear tether to his previous life, in this house feels surreal. Foggy almost wants to pinch himself just to make sure this isn’t a dream.
Jessica’s expression softens, it is subtle, but probably more than anything Foggy has ever seen from here.
“Everyone thought you were dead,” She says quietly. There is something raw in the way she says it, something that Foggy could have mistaken for grief if he didn’t know any better.
“I know,” he replies. “I’m sorry”.
She nods quickly. “Well, I’m glad you’re not,” And just like that she is back to the tough Jessica. “Come on, let’s go home”.
Jessica’s car is parked in a way that is clearly illegal. She has driven onto Foggy’s lawn and parked at a 50 degree angle, but he finds it inappropriate to complain.
The car still has the heater on and it feels like a blessing to escape the rain.
As Jessica steers back onto the road, Foggy can’t help but let his gaze linger on the house even as it gradually fades into the distance.
He tries his hardest to not stare at Jessica even though her presence is the best thing that has happened to him in the past year. Still, there is one question that sits at the tip of his tongue and the only one that he cannot avoid.
“How is Matt?” Matt’s name feels foreign on his lips after so much time, when he was barely allowed to think about him.
Jessica hesitates for a moment. “He’s… in jail,” She says, matter-of-factly.
“Right,” Foggy sighs. “Good to know he’s still an idiot”.
“That he is,” Jessica scoffs.
It is about a four hour drive to New York and as the rain rhythmically drummed against the car, Foggy allowed himself to doze off. He feels an increasing weight in his body as he leans his head against the seatbelt. He can still hear the whirr of the engine and Jessica’s annoyed grunts whenever someone cuts her off on the freeway. But he also gets the best sleep that he has gotten ever since he left New York.
He wakes up in the middle of the night just as they drive into the city. The pitch black of the highway slowly transitions into the brightness of the city that never sleeps. They pass an empty blockpost with heavy gates that now remain open. Foggy quickly turns to Jessica.
“You missed some things,” She shrugs.
The further they get into the city the more traces of chaos catch Foggy’s attention. Torn banners with Fisk’s name, broken windows that have not been replaced yet and are instead boarded up awkwardly.
“Maybe it’s for the best,” he says.
The streets are uncharacteristically empty, it is clear that the city is still recovering from the fight it has been pulled into.
Foggy forces himself to tear his eyes away from yet another vandalized ‘Fisk will fix it’ poster as Jessica takes a turn and they end up in the yard of an old apartment building.
“Well, we’re here,” Jessica states as she kills the engine.
“Great,” Foggy nods. “Where is ‘here’?”
Jessica shoots him an expressive look and then allows her eyes to shift onto something outside the car window. Foggy cannot help but turn around to figure out what it is she is staring at and he does so just in time to see Karen shut the front door behind herself as she runs outside. She was clearly pulled out of bed and she pulls a thin cardigan tighter around herself as she carefully studies Jessica’s car.
For a moment, Foggy feels frozen. She hasn’t noticed him yet and so he turns to Jessica.
“Why are you looking at me?” She scoffs.
Foggy is not sure himself. He assumes that he is looking for reassurance that this is okay. That he can show up a year after his presumed death and it will not lead to significant damage in his life. After he is sure that Jessica will not be the one to offer him any word of advice, he steps out of the car.
He notices Karen’s expression drop as soon as she notices him. For a moment, she seems frozen in space, Foggy feels the same. Then she stumbles forward, rushes towards him and immediately wraps her arms around him in a way he has never seen her do.
Hesitantly, he hugs her back, unsure if this is all real or not. He can feel her ribs under his fingers. Stress, probably. When she pulls back, he sees just how exhausted she is. She puts her palm on the side of his face slowly, as if afraid that he will disappear after her touch.
“I… You…” She stutters over the words. “You were dead, I was there, you…” She is sobbing now, tears are streaming down her cheeks and Foggy pulls her back into a hug.
He can feel her shake in his hold and his awkward pats do little to calm her down. It takes a full minute for her breathing to even out slightly.
“I missed you so much,” She whispers into his shoulder.
“I missed you too,” He breathes, “You have no idea how much”.
Once again she draws back, taking in his features. She studies his face for a long moment before giving his shoulder one last squeeze.
“Come on, we should get inside”.
Karen’s apartment is small and stuffy. The makeshift bedroom is separated from the kitchen by a sliding door and the sofa and TV that make up the living room are positioned a few steps away from the stove. So, Foggy, positioned on the couch, did not even have to raise his voice to reach Karen, who was lingering in the kitchen.
“What exactly is he being accused of?” Foggy asks.
“Vigilante crimes,” Karen states, once again, which does not make the situation any clearer.
“So, no actual cause of action as per the constitutional law whatsoever?”
“For a long time anti vigilante policy was a part of the city’s martial law”.
“Which should not be the case now that Fisk is no longer in power. Matt has broken about as many laws as Tony Stark or Clint Barton and yet he is the only one in jail,” He pauses for a moment, “I realize now that Tony Stark is dead, but my point still stands”.
He glances back at Karen, who is staring at him with so much adoration that it nearly punches the air out of him.
“What?”
“Nothing,” She shakes her head. “I just can’t believe you’re here”.
“Yeah, you and me both,” Foggy shrugs.
“So, what’s the plan?”
“I think with the jury on our side, there is a big chance we can get Matt out”.
…
His cell is quiet. Well, quiet relative to the rest of the cell block. He can always hear the muffled screams and the distant sobs that have become as integral as the metal bars. With nothing else to focus on, his senses inevitably drift into the distance, carving out a part of his soul on the way back. Under different circumstances he probably would have tried something, maybe sorted at least some part of the injustice that is ever present here.
“So, I’ve been thinking about the beard,” A voice says and Matt forces himself to focus on it.
“Oh yeah?” He asks, hoping for the voice to continue.
“It would take some time, of course, but think about what it will do for your image. If prisoners are not terrified of Daredevil now they will be once you grow out a beard”.
“Did Frank have a beard?”
“Not for a while”.
He can almost feel a hand on his shoulder. The warmth is so real it makes Matt want to lean into the touch he knows is not there.
“I miss you, Foggy,” He whispers, pushing past the lump in his throat.
“I miss you too, buddy”.
He falls asleep with the comforting presence by his side.
He is woken up by the harsh bang of metal against metal.
“Rise and shine, Murdock!” One of the guards yells.
Foggy is gone now, instead, there is a dull headache that only worsens, when Matt forces himself up to his feet.
“Your lawyer is here,” The guard announces.
Kirsten must have some news then. About time, he hasn’t heard from her in a couple of days.
Obediently, he positions himself with his face against the wall as the key rustles in the lock of his cell. A few moments later, the door creaks open and there are sturdy footsteps moving in his direction. The guard yanks at his arm painfully and turns him around. There is a distinct click of handcuffs around his wrists and then Matt is pushed forward and out of the cell.
As he is led further down the corridor, he can hear the remnants of conversation from the surrounding cells. His person has been the topic of passionate discussion ever since he got here and he is delighted to report that the chatter only gets more intense with every passing day.
There are rumours that he can kill a guard with his hands cuffed behind his back, rumours that half of the prisoners are here because of him and, less than pleasant, belief that any day now, he will become yet another victim of internal gang violence. Daredevil’s head has been on the wish list of many for years now and his presence here might finally make someone’s wish come true.
Finally, he is led into the visitation room, which is a nice change of pace from his stuffy cell. It may be his senses going haywire from the sudden access to relatively fresher air, but he immediately notices something different. The smell in the room is not Kirsten, her sweet floral perfume is replaced by a cheap shampoo that Matt does not recognise. And there is something else, something familiar that he cannot place.
“I will kindly ask you to take off my client’s handcuffs for the private meeting,” A voice says and Matt cannot breathe.
He barely registers the pressure around his wrists going away, because he is too focused on the presence in the room.
This is not real. This cannot be real.
The guard shuts the door behind himself and for a moment Matt stays frozen, silent, waiting for the illusion to dissipate. And yet he hears a heartbeat. It is unsteady with emotion, but it is here. He cannot be imagining this.
“Foggy,” He says, forcibly dragging the name out of himself, because he cannot bear being wrong, not in this.
“Hi, Matt,” Foggy replies and his heart rate speeds up. Real, strong, alive.
Slowly, Matt walks towards it. He cannot speak, so he simply puts his head against Foggy’s shoulder, breathes in and nearly chokes on his own sob. When he finally wraps his arms around Foggy, he clings onto the rough fabric of the jacket on his back. He must look pathetic, clinging onto Foggy as if he is the last lifeline. His body starts shaking with poorly controlled sobs and he is painfully aware of his tears starting to soak through the jacket.
Hands land on his own back softly and this time it’s real, unmistakably and remarkably real.
“I buried you,” He whispers into his shoulder.
“I know, I’m so sorry,” Foggy starts.
“Don’t be,” Matt shakes his head. “I’m so happy you’re here”.
“Well, aren’t you gonna ask…”
“I don’t care”.
He holds onto Foggy tighter, a year of grief and longing manifesting itself in the unbearable flood of emotions that threatens to swallow him whole. But for once it does not feel like only his to carry. Because Foggy’s arms stay around him, ready to catch him, when he falls.