Chapter Text
Matt wishes he had his cane.
The thought almost makes him laugh, but he can‘t quite get there. Not when his throat is this tight, and his head is spinning, and the world around him is a useless blur of vague impressions, some of which might be hallucinations. He can‘t tell.
He can‘t tell, and that terrifies him.
The problem with living in a world on fire for so long is that he has almost forgotten what it‘s like to stumble around in darkness. So when water douses the flames, he loses himself in the all-consuming black void again, like that very first day, and he feels like that nine year old boy again.
Helpless. Disoriented. Overwhelmed by sensory input he hasn‘t learned to make sense of yet.
Where is he? What time is it? He can‘t be wandering the streets dressed like this, especially not if the city is about to wake up from its tentative slumber and flood the streets with people.
Even now, someone could be spotting him while looking out the window, dialing 911, and he wouldn‘t know because there is water in his ears and he can‘t hear anything but his own pounding heartbeat, the rush of blood in his veins, and his lungs working overtime to draw breath into his body, almost hyperventilating.
No.
No, this won‘t do. He has to focus.
Exhausted and at the edge of a panic attack, he dips into what he hopes is a quiet alleyway and slumps against the nearest wall in an effort to ground himself.
He is suddenly very grateful for every mindfulness exercise the doctors taught him after he went blind, because without them, he feels like might have just given up, sat down on the curb, and waited for someone, anyone - police, criminal, some random civilian with a grudge against Daredevil - to find him and put him out of his misery, one way or another.
It is a frightening thought.
Matt has flirted with death a thousand times, and loves the thrill of it, that sweet chance that something might go wrong and he won‘t make it out by the skin of his teeth this time, but only once in his entire life has he ever considered surrendering.
He doesn‘t want to be in that horrible, dark, hopeless place again. Promised himself he wouldn‘t. Promised the people who inexplicably love him he wouldn‘t.
With shaky hands, he takes off one of his gloves and does his damnedest to get the water out of his ear canals by shoving his fingers into them as deep as he can. It‘s a struggle, and he‘s just about to give up and try something else when he feels the surface tension break in his right ear and muddy water make way for wonderful, glorious, clear air and the world finally begins to take shape again.
It‘s not perfect - he still can‘t quite make out what‘s going on on his left side, and his soaking wet suit makes any efforts to sense heat all but useless, but it‘s better than trying to navigate New York City by smell and touch alone.
At least his nose has reliably led him to that Tamil place Foggy likes so much, with the distinctive curry blend that always lingers in his clothes for days whenever he eats there. It‘s a comforting smell, and not only because it tells Matt that he must be near his friend‘s apartment. Near enough to get there in one piece, even down two and a half senses instead of just one.
Somehow, he‘s glad he ended up here, rather than at his own place or even Claire‘s fancy new clinic, courtesy of a certain billionaire benefactor. He feels untethered, like he‘s still adrift in the water, trapped in the undertow, and that‘s not something stitches or medication can fix.
He needs ... Needs something solid. Something real. Something familiar.
He needs his best friend.
Straining his fully functional ear, he listens carefully to the steady drip drip drip of water from his costume, traces the echoes in his mind the best he can until he has a general idea of where he is.
He takes another shaky breath, then forces himself to walk, even though he is freezing cold and his legs are oddly stiff and every step feels like wading through a swamp.
It‘s difficult and he keeps stumbling, tripping over his own feet and random trash and nothing at all, but somehow, he makes his way through the back alleys, sticking to the shadows the best he can.
Near as he can tell, no one spots him, but being stuck on solid ground, unable to leap from roof to roof to get where he wants, he still feels vulnerable.
It‘s nights like this that he wishes he still wore his original outfit. He could have taken off the mask, removed the bandaging from his hands, and pretended to be just another citizen who happened to be wearing all black. From afar, perhaps no one would have been able to tell that he was soaked to the bone, and thus wouldn‘t have spared him a second glance.
This is the price he pays for denying the city its pound of flesh.
(He feels guilty about that, sometimes. About not bleeding for his sins the way he used to.)
(The way he‘s supposed to.)
But he knows that Foggy and Karen would probably kill him themselves if he went back to wearing no armor at all, and they‘d be well within their rights to. He worries them enough as it is, even with a significantly lower amount of stab wounds bleeding through his work shirts, making Foggy sigh with resignation, rifle through the small closet in Matt‘s office for a spare, and call for Karen to bring him the first aid kit.
A guilty smile creeps across Matt‘s face in spite of himself, and the warmth in his belly is enough to keep him going for now.
*
It takes him an embarrassingly long time to get to Foggy‘s building, shivering and shaking the whole way, but he does get there in one piece and without any awkward encounters or the howl of police sirens in his ear.
He sends up a small prayer of gratitude (something he doesn‘t do nearly enough) as his numb fingers find Foggy‘s doorbell. There is something so silly about ringing a doorbell in the middle of the night, dressed in devil-themed red body armor, but at least he is familiar enough with the security cameras in Foggy‘s building to avoid them.
„Yes?“, Foggy‘s voice comes through the intercom, and the electronic crackle can‘t hide the sleepiness in his voice.
A pang of guilt runs through a Matt as he says: „Foggy, it‘s me. Can I come in?“
Foggy buzzes him in without hesitation, the noise a shrieking chainsaw to Matt‘s brain, but a relief nonetheless.
Matt half-falls, half-pushes into the hallway and drags his uncooperative body up the stairs. Above him, he hears the slap of bare feet on tile, rushing to meet him halfway.
„Jesus, Matt, what happened to you? Must be bad if you decided to skip my window for the door.“
„I‘m fine“, Matt tries to reassure him, even though he always insists he‘s fine, so it probably doesn‘t work. „Can ... Can you guide me? Please?“
„Okay, now I‘m really worried.“ Foggy‘s tone is light and joking, but his heart flutters nervously in his chest. He offers up his arm and Matt takes it gratefully, basking in the comforting familiarity of it, his best friend‘s warm and solid shape next to him whispering ‚home‘.
Foggy shudders when Matt‘s fingers brush against his naked arm. „Man, you‘re freezing. And wet. We gotta get you inside and out of that ridiculous suit.“
„I‘m sorry for waking you this late“, Matt says quietly as he is led upstairs to Foggy‘s apartment.
Foggy tuts at him and pats his hand in a very ‚kindly, but stern matron in an Edwardian women‘s novel‘ fashion. „Don‘t be silly. You know I‘d rather you come to me than bleed out in alley somewhere because you‘re too fucking noble to ask for help.“
It‘s the truth - it always is - but Matt still feels guilt eating away at him, the way it always does when he involves his friends in anything Daredevil-related.
He can hear Stick‘s voice in his head, chastising him for growing soft, for not donning sackcloth, living on the streets, and forgoing all human contact that doesn‘t involve bloodying his fists.
The old man always wanted him to be a weapon, to bleed for a greater cause with unwavering, Christlike selflessness, and live his life with a stoic asceticism that would rival the Buddha himself.
Matt can‘t do either of those.
He‘s a bit too Catholic to even try for Buddha, and for all his devotion to God (waxing and waning though it may be), he knows he‘s nothing like Christ.
He‘s nothing like Moses or Abraham or Peter or Paul, either. And he already knows from experience that he makes for a shitty Job. Oh, he knows how to suffer, was fucking made for it, but he can‘t take it without making the rest of the world pay for his pain.
Instead, he‘s the Adversary. The Accuser, who cleanses the wicked in a Purgatory of violence and tests the faith of good men and women by taking, taking, taking from them until there‘s nothing left.
Good men like Foggy.
Depite not having a God-fearing bone in his body, Foggy is a man of faith in ways Matt will never be. Faith in the Law, in Right and Wrong, in the fundamental goodness of humanity. And, for some inexplicable reason, faith in Matt.
It‘s a faith he doesn‘t deserve, but it‘s righteous and unshakable, and he is grateful for it, because without it, he‘d be lost.
Foggy‘s apartment is a bit stuffy compared to the crisp October air outside, but Matt‘s freezing body welcomes the warmth, along with the familiar smell of printer ink and green apple-scented shampoo and too much take-out and Foggy.
Foggy pulls the door shut behind them and quickly ushers Matt into his bathroom.
„Sorry about your floor“, Matt says quietly, painfully aware of his boots sloshing with water and leaving wet footprints all over the vinyl of Foggy‘s living room.
„Don‘t be ridiculous. I own a mop, you know.“
Gingerly, Foggy reaches up to take off Matt‘s mask and set it aside in the sink. His hands return to Matt‘s face immediately, brushing wet hair out of the way and lingering for a moment when Matt leans into the touch.
„Hey there, buddy“, Foggy whispers, and it sounds so unbelievably tender, Matt can feel his throat clench shut and his heart jump in chest.
„Hey yourself.“
He manages a smile, just barely, and senses Foggy relax slightly before moving on to fiddle with the straps of the Daredevil armor.
„Are you going to tell me what happened?“, Foggy asks as the first buckles start to come loose.
„Human trafficking ring“, Matt explains, and when Foggy winces, he quickly adds: „Not the sex trafficking type, thank God, but still pretty grim. We were on a boat, and some guy got me with a net, of all things.“
„Jesus.“ Foggy shakes his head. „I suppose it‘s better than a gun, at least.“
„That‘s what I thought at first. But the net ... I was all tangled up in it. I coudn‘t move. And I ... I fell.“
„Into the river?“
„Yes.“
Foggy curses under his breath. „Are you injured?“
„No.“ It‘s the truth - there‘s barely a scratch on Matt this time, yet he feels more unsettled than after any of the times he came home with bullet wounds or pulverized ribs.
„But I ... Foggy, I couldn‘t see. There was just enough air in my lungs to keep my afloat, but every time tried to get out of the net, I went under, and I was in the dark again, not knowing up from down and ... It was so loud, and so confusing. I was so sure I was going to drown, and I was scared no one would ever find me, that you and Karen would never-“
The words bubble out of him like the dirty, bitter water he swallowed, threatening to drown him. He‘s breathing too fast again, because if he stops, he may never feel air in his lungs ever again, and he can‘t, he can‘t die like this-
Foggy‘s embrace knocks the remaining air out of Matt‘s chest and for a second, he is convinced he is going to suffocate right then and there, but it‘s Foggy, warm and soft and full of enough life for the both of them, and Matt doesn‘t need oxygen when he can live off the rhythm of that familiar, sturdy heartbeat instead.
„Hey man, stay with me, okay?“, Foggy pleads, a worried hand carding through Matt‘s damp hair, blunt fingernails dragging along his scalp just so, and it‘s enough. „Just breathe with me, can you do that, Matty?“
And Matt does. He wraps one arm around Foggy‘s waist, the other around his shoulders, fingers curling around the back of his neck, non-waterlogged ear pressed against his chest, and holds onto his friend for dear life.
Of all the heartbeats Matt hears on a daily basis, this is the only one he‘d recognize instantly, no matter what. He knows it at rest, steady and strong, and he knows it fluttering with nerves or racing with excitement.
He knows all the ways it twists in the clutches of fear, and pain, and pleasure.
(Matt still feels bad about that last one, but it‘s not like he was eavesdropping intentionally.)
He knows the rhythm intimately, the shape of its echo, every little skip and quirk and tremor. Could probably pick out Foggy‘s heart if it sat on a metal tray next to a dozen others, that‘s how well he knows it from sound alone.
If he had to pick only one sound to listen to for the rest of his life, it would be this.
His lungs quake with the effort of staving off collapse as he fights to control his breathing. Air in, air out. Expand and contract. Easy.
(At least, it should be.)
Foggy holds him through it, keeps petting his head the entire time, and Matt feels silly for being this way, for needing this so much, but he can‘t help it, can‘t help the way he almost goes limp in Foggy‘s arms when the panic subsides.
„Better?“, Foggy asks, pulling back slightly, but not letting go.
When Matt nods, Foggy gives him one last squeeze and goes back to peeling off the suit - chest piece first, then the belt.
It‘s hurried (eager, Matt almost wants to say), like undressing a lover you can‘t wait to make love to, but Matt can‘t sense any arousal on him at all, just worry.
(Not that he expected anything different.)
Slowly but surely, despite clinging valiantly to Matt‘s skin, the suit comes off bit by bit - shoulders, arms, torso, thighs, before pooling around his knees, and he feels like a moth being ripped from its chrysalis after lacking the strength to break free by itself. It‘s vulnerable and raw, but it‘s Foggy‘s careful hands doing the ripping, so he surrenders himself willingly.
Foggy makes him sit on the toilet lid and sinks to his knees to untie the heavy combat boots and that act alone is so tender and caring, Matt can‘t help himself - his fingers find Foggy‘s cheek just to feel it, to run his thumb across that place where coarse stubble fades into silky peach fuzz, to trace every line that wasn‘t there before (worry, so much worry, so much of it because of Matt).
It‘s something Foggy asked him not to do again, not after the first time had left his skin flushed and his heart racing in a way Matt had pretended not to notice, even though it would have been obvious even to someone without enhanced senses. But he is selfish, and he needs that connection right now.
Another promise broken, another boundary crossed.
And Foggy just ... forgives him. Like it‘s nothing. Lets his eyes drift shift and waits patiently for Matt to take his fill.
Take, take, take.
That‘s what Matt does these days. What he has been doing ever since his world went dark and then was set aflame.
The fire never made the darkness go away, not really. But people did. The few bright lights that sweep in and out of Matt‘s life: Dad. Stick, Elektra, Foggy, Karen, Claire, Father Lantom, Sister Maggie.
Matt flits between those lights like a nocturnal insect and one by one, he eclipses them, drags them into his eternal night. Leaves them to trip over him and isn‘t there to catch them when they fall.
But he can‘t live without them.
He lets his hand drop down limply and Foggy goes back to the task at hand, untying his boots and pulling at the remaining armor until Matt sits there, dressed in nothing but gooseflesh, the residues of the Hudson, and a pair of worn boxers.
„The things I do for you“, Foggy sighs with fond exasperation, and somehow this - the quiet acceptance - is worse than being scolded for getting himself in danger.
This isn‘t the first time they‘ve done this, and it won‘t be the last. It‘s becoming a routine for them, the way patching up his father after a fight had been for Matt. Matt had done it happily, but that doesn‘t mean he has forgotten just how awful it had felt to be constantly reminded of all the ways the most important person in his life kept whittling away at his own body like this, turning himself into a mosaic of aches and scars and bones that didn‘t knit back together quite the same after being broken.
He doesn‘t want that for Foggy. He wants Foggy to at least be able to pretend that he won‘t have to bury Matt first.
And yet, here they are, once again. Matt falling apart and Foggy putting him back together again.
Matt feels a warm hand on his left foot and can‘t help the pleased little sigh that escapes him when Foggy starts rubbing back life into the icy appendage.
„We gotta warm you up somehow, bud“, Foggy points out as his other hand joins the first. „Any ideas what would help? Tea? Hot shower? Cuddling? Don‘t tell me you‘ll die if we raise your temperature too quickly, because that would be hard too explain when the cops show up at my apartment and find your half-naked corpsesicle next to your Devil costume.“
To his surprise, Matt actually manages a weak laugh. „I don‘t think it‘s that bad. A shower sounds perfect right now.“ He wrinkles his nose for emphasis. He‘s going to have one hell of a time trying to get the smell of the Hudson out of his suit. Again.
(God must have a sense of humor, because somehow, Matt keeps ending up in the river time and time again, even though deep water is just about the only thing that can make him feel truly blind again.)
„We can do that“, Foggy says cheerfully, like Matt suggested getting pizza for dinner.
After giving Matt‘s calf an affectionate pat, he rises to his feet, pulls back the shower curtain and starts fiddling with the faucet, trying to get the temperature just right.
Matt stands up to join him, shimmying out of his boxers in the process. Without the wet clothes to distract him, he can feel the heat that rushes to Foggy‘s face, but Foggy seems to be making a conscious effort not to look at him.
It‘s a nice gesture, but Matt is beyond caring about his own modesty at this point.
He pushes past Foggy and climbs into the tub. The water lapping at his feet is barely above tepid, but it feels almost scalding on his skin.
„Want some privacy?“, Foggy asks, still keeping his eyes fixed straight ahead.
„No!“, Matt exclaims, too quickly. „I mean ... There‘s no need. I - You - ... Please.“
He can‘t think of a way to say it that doesn‘t sound weird. Maybe because it is weird. Weird and selfish and utterly pathetic. But right now, he wants Foggy‘s presence here, grounding him.
„Stay?“
„Jesus, Matty, you‘re looking at me like a kicked puppy right now.“ Foggy gives a dry chuckle, but there is no real mirth to it. „It‘s alright, I can stay with you. Move over, will you?“
Still dressed in his night clothes (a t-shirt and boxers, from what Matt can tell), he climbs into the tub with Matt and grabs the shower head, pulling the curtain shut behind them.
„Give me your hand“, he orders and Matt complies, unable to stifle a groan when the warm water hits his fingers. It‘s too much, but it feels so good at the same time.
„This okay?“, Foggy asks.
When Matt nods, Foggy starts directing the spray towards Matt‘s wrist, his arm, his elbow, all the way up to his shoulder, warming him up slowly, almost inch by inch. It‘s heavenly.
Foggy switches to his other arm, then both of his legs. By the time he reattaches the shower head, they‘re both equally wet, but Matt finally feels some semblance of life return to his body.
Bit by bit, it becomes easier to create a mental picture from the sensory input, but there‘s still water sloshing in Matt‘s ear, tormenting him with an unpleasantly loud echo of his own bloodstream. By impulse, he shakes his head like dog, before he realizes that all it does is splash water all over Foggy‘s face. He grimaces. Tries his fingers again, but to no avail.
„What‘s wrong?“, Foggy asks, concerned. „Something happen to your ear?“
„Just water“, Matt replies. „From the river. It‘s loud.“
„Oh. Why didn‘t you say something?“
Foggy reaches past the curtain to retrieve something from the bathroom shelf. It takes him a while since he‘s feeling around blindly, but eventually, he makes a pleased noise and presses a small, long, narrow item into Matt‘s hand.
„Q-tip. Don‘t poke your eardrum out.“
Matt almost does, despite the warning, that‘s how desperate he is to get his normal hearing back. When the cotton absorbs the water and the rush of blood becomes quiet again, Matt almost wants to cry with relief.
He tosses the q-tip into the sink and takes a moment to just enjoy the sound of the water drumming against his bare shoulders and back, to listen to the rhythm of Foggy‘s even breathing and ever so slightly elevated heartbeat.
Matt closes his eyes and turns his face towards the spray. Chlorine, fluoride, calcium and hints of copper fill his nose, sharp and clean. Traces of Foggy‘s shampoo and soap linger on the shower curtain, stirred up by the air currents and humidity.
It‘s wonderful. Matt could fall asleep right here and now. He‘d probably fall and crack open his skull in the process - a rather undignified end for the Devil of Hell‘s Kitchen - but he‘d die happy, wrapped in the warmth and comfort of Foggy and home.
„Thank you“, he breathes. „You have no idea how much this means to me.“
Foggy huffs out a laugh. „What? A shower? I‘ll send you my water bill if it‘ll make you happy, but I think I‘ll manage.“
„No, not that“, Matt says. „I mean ... You being here - being there for me, in the middle of the night. Just because I asked you to. Thank you.“
„Of course, buddy.“ Foggy waves his hand dismissively, even though his face is flushed once again. „Need anything else?“
„Actually, yes“, Matt says, wrinkling his nose and combing his fingers through his wet hair. „Mind if I use your shampoo? My hair is full motor oil and algae. Among other things.“
„Knock yourself out.“
The scent is strong enough that Matt can identify the correct bottle without as much as touching it. He squirts a generous amount into his hand and starts lathering up his hair, that green apple smell wrapping itself around him like a blanket. He has no idea why he likes it so much. It‘s artificial and cheap, but in a good way, like the hard candy he used to get from the bodega on the corner when he was a child.
„Remember how you used to steal that stuff from me all the time when we were in college?“, Foggy reminisces fondly.
„Well, what can I say? I really like it.“
„Yeah, I know. That‘s why I‘ve been using it for - what, seventeen years now? Although I don‘t understand why you never buy it for yourself.“
„I ... I don‘t know, either“, Matt admits, frowning a little.
It‘s just something that never occurred to him. For some reason, this particular scent is something that he associates so heavily with the landscape of sensory information that is Foggy Nelson that decoupling the experience from Foggy feels fundamentally wrong.
Suddenly, Matt feels incredibly tired again. He turns off the water and lets Foggy wrap him in a fluffy towel before climbing out of the tub.
„Ugh, I‘m soaked“, Foggy groans, pulling off his t-shirt and boxers to toss them into the hamper. „Your toothbrush‘s to the left if you want to get the taste of dirty river water out of your mouth. I‘ll go change and wait for you in bed.“
Foggy doesn‘t even try the ‚No, I can take the couch‘ song and dance, and for that, Matt is immensely grateful. He doesn‘t have the energy to performatively negotiate boundaries right now just because that‘s what polite society would expect from them. After all, it‘s not like they haven‘t shared a bed before.
Even so - there is this odd feeling niggling away at Matt as he reaches for his toothbrush. His toothbrush, because he‘s crashed at Foggy‘s place often enough that having it here just makes sense. Same with the spare set of clothes in Foggy‘s dresser.
It‘s all so ... domestic.
It feels like they‘re roommates again, and Matt realizes with a heavy knot in his belly just how much he‘s missed this. Missed the two of them, living together. The easy, comfortable way they fit together, like magnets snapping into place.
Matt ties the towel around his waist and brushes his teeth quickly before heading to the bedroom and sliding beneath the blanket which is already warm from Foggy‘s body heat.
He sighs contentedly. Foggy‘s sheets aren‘t silk, but they‘re microfiber - the good kind that doesn‘t catch on Matt‘s skin, like the sheets he‘d had back in college.
Maybe Foggy had fallen in love with the material then, somewhere along the way while they were snuggled up together (usually tired and/or tipsy) on Matt‘s twin-sized bed with Foggy‘s stereo playing in the background. Talking about everything and nothing before falling asleep to the sound of Sufjan Stevens singing softly about a man he loves, who may or may not be Jesus.
Things were simpler then.
Matt was actually able to actually repay Foggy for always being there for him.
Matt brought him coffee and snacks. Stayed up with him for late night cramming sessions. Rubbed his shoulders when they got stiff from being hunched over his desk for too long. Was his wingman, carefully steering him towards girls with kind voices and boys with gentle hands, whose hearts beat a little bit too fast when Foggy made them laugh.
Now ... Now the best Matt can do is occasionally show up with evidence for a case (evidence he usually beat out of someone the night before, which has the terrible side effect of giving Foggy a guilty conscience), like a cat leaving a dead mouse on his owner‘s pillow.
It weighs on Matt, the knowledge that their relationship has become even more uneven than when all Foggy had to accommodate was Matt‘s disability. He already felt like a ball and chain around Foggy‘s ankle back then.
He hears Foggy shift a little, stretching out his arm and patting the mattress next to him, a silent invitation.
Matt doesn‘t have it in him to decline. He rolls onto his side, pressing closer to Foggy, who wraps an arm around his waist and pulls him into a tight embrace that makes the restlessness in Matt‘s bones settle, makes his mind go blissfully quiet.
With a sigh, Matt lays his head on Foggy‘s shoulder, careful to keep his wet hair away from the dry shirt Foggy has changed into, and lets the steady up and down of Foggy‘s breathing rock him to sleep.
*
In most of his dreams, Matt can still see. He sees all the things he misses the most: Small details. Bright bursts of colors. His father‘s face. The streets of Hell‘s Kitchen. The way the light falls through the stained glass windows of his church.
And above it all, the sky, vast and endless, vivid shades of white, blue, pink, purple and black bleeding into one another like a watercolor painting. The barest hint of fading sunlight illuminating the horizon, a smattering of stars barely resisting being drowned out by New York City‘s ever present light pollution.
Waking from those dreams only to open his eyes and be met with nothing but this all-consuming blackness hits him like a bullet to the chest every single time.
It‘s like he‘s still lying in that street, watching the world fade from existence over and over again.
Other times, Matt dreams in darkness. No visuals at all, just smell and touch and sound, and vague impressions of where things should be.
He doesn‘t know which dreams are worse.
Tonight, Matt dreams of Foggy. Of walking with him down the street Matt grew up on, Foggy guiding him even though Matt can see everything - everything except for Foggy himself.
Foggy is a hole in the world, deep and dark and empty, a vague outline, cobbled together from the countless sensory impressions Matt has collected over the years. All of them memorized, itemized, and stored away for a rainy day in the attic of his mind.
If only he could see Foggy‘s face, just once. Just to know what he looks like. Just to carve out a proper shape for him in Matt‘s imagination.
Matt sleeps remarkably soundly, all things considered, but he still wakes up feeling groggy and out of sorts, like a hangover without the splitting headache. The dream has left him hollow and brittle, like the smallest impact would make him break into a million pieces.
He screws his eyes shut tighter and forces himself to focus on Foggy‘s presence, soft and comforting beside him.
Neither of them must have moved much because Matt‘s head is still resting on Foggy‘s shoulder, silky, apple-scented hair tickling his nose with every breath. It‘s longer again, almost like it was in law school. Long enough for Foggy to wear it in a neat bun most days, and judging by the unusual amount of elevated heartbeats around him, it must be an attractive look. Matt wishes he could see it himself, compliment Foggy on it without sounding creepy.
At some point during the night, the towel has come loose. Matt should probably fix it to make at least a token effort to protect his modesty, but Foggy‘s breathing tells him he‘s in the process of waking, and Matt wants to stay like this for a little longer. It‘s nice, being held like this, Foggy‘s hand on his waist like that‘s the most natural place in the world for it to be.
The upside of having an openly bisexual best friend is that Foggy has never been weird about exchanging physical affection with Matt for fear that someone might get the wrong idea.
They don‘t settle for casual bro hugs and shoulder clasps, leaving room for Jesus and their masculinity.
It‘s always full hugs, an arm slung around the other‘s shoulders, kisses to the cheek if they‘re particularly drunk or happy. Walking arm in arm. Cuddling on the couch while watching a movie, Foggy‘s head in Matt‘s lap, Matt‘s fingers in Foggy‘s hair.
It‘s effortless.
The only time things got truly awkward between them was when Foggy let Matt touch his face, and really, that had been entirely Matt‘s fault. He‘d been the one to get carried away, thrilled by the reactions his fingertips could draw from Foggy as they danced across his jaw just so. Making Foggy‘s breath hitch in his throat every time he had to stifle a moan, playing his heart like a drum, speeding up and slowing down at Matt‘s command.
No swing of his fists has ever made him feel that powerful.
Matt still replays that memory in his head all the time, cringing at himself for how far he had pushed things, and for what? To be cruel? To feed his own ego? Just because he could? He doesn‘t even know. All he knows is that he enjoyed every second of it.
(An expensive glass shatters on the kitchen floor. Elektra drops another one, and another, and another, just for the pleasure of seeing something break.
We are perfect together, Matthew.)
He swallows around the burning lump of guilt and shame in his throat. He doesn‘t deserve Foggy. Never has.
And Foggy knows it. He knows it every time Matt rips his heart out of his chest accidentally, then stomps on it intentionally in an effort to make him see. See that Matt isn‘t worth it.
Sometimes, Foggy does see. He leaves, like he‘s supposed to, and it‘s better that way. He leaves, and he stays away for a while until both of them can pretend they stopped aching for one another, but he never moves on. He always comes back.
Matt doesn‘t want to send him away anymore.
He wraps his arm more tightly around Foggy‘s middle, snuggling as close as he can without putting his naked penis on his best friend‘s body, because that would be crossing a line even for them, and he prays for something, anything for him to do that will make Foggy happy.
Matt has not yet finished his prayer when Foggy wakes with an aborted snore, fingers flexing against Matt‘s skin. They‘re close enough that Matt can feel Foggy‘s eyes flutter open and he wonders what they look like right now, unfocused and blinking away the last remnants of sleep.
(A greenish blue, like an ocean-y kinda color is how Foggy described them when Matt asked about it. It sounds beautiful.)
„Morning, sunshine“, Foggy says with a yawn. „Sleep well?“
„I‘m sorry“, is the only thing coming out of Matt‘s mouth.
„Don‘t be“, Foggy tells him breezily. „You‘re here, you‘re safe, I slept better than I have in weeks knowing that you‘re not bleeding to death in an alley somewhere, and I got a good cuddle out of it. Not how I imagined getting you naked in my bed, but I‘ll take it.“
It‘s a joke.
Of course it‘s a joke, Matt knows that. He should just gloss over it, laugh it off, maybe come up with a quippy, slightly flirty reply that gives both of them plausible deniability. The same they‘ve always done.
But.
Right now, it‘s giving Matt an idea. A fantastic idea. A terrible idea.
This is an opportunity. A sign. The answer to his prayers.
Because in reality, it‘s not a joke at all, and they both know it.
„How did you imagine getting me into bed?“, Matt blurts out before he has a chance to think about what he‘s doing or change his mind.
From the sound of it, Foggy‘s heart must be doing somersaults in his chest. He chokes out a nervous laugh, but says nothing.
Matt shifts away from him slightly, just far enough that they can look at each other (or pretend to, in Matt‘s case). He cups Foggy‘s jaw to keep him from flinching away. „Tell me.“
With a heavy sigh, Foggy grabs Matt‘s wrist and pulls it away from his face. „Can we not do this, please?“
He untangles himself from Matt and rolls over, away from him, to sit at the edge of the bed and take a long drink from the glass of water on his night stand. He seems extremely uncomfortable, which is the opposite of what Matt wanted.
Fuck.
„Please, Foggy“, Matt pleads quietly. „I just want to know.“
„Oh, like you don‘t know it already, what with your freaky senses and all that“, Foggy snaps, more hurt than angry. „Is that not enough? Do I really need to spell it out for you?“
„I know you‘re attracted to me-“, Matt begins, but Foggy cuts him off sharply.
„Really, now? What gave it away? My heartbeat, or the fact that I hit on you the first time we met?“
„I know that you‘re attracted to me“, Matt repeats, more firmly this time, „but I don‘t know what that means. You can be attracted to someone you‘d never sleep with in a million years. I‘m not a mind reader, Foggy. I can‘t tell whether you want to act on the way you feel about me or not.“
Foggy scoffs. „I‘m not going to ravish you or anything, if that‘s what you‘re worried about.“ He puts down the glass with more force than necessary and wipes his hand across his face, the stubble on his cheek catching on his palm.
„Why do you care all of a sudden? Did I poke you with my boner in my sleep or something? This ... thing I have for you has never been a problem between us before.“
He hesitates, heart skipping in his chest. „Has it?“
The words sound suspiciously close to a sob. He‘s shaking now, distressed, and that won‘t do at all.
Matt lunges towards him, wrapping his arms around Foggy from behind, holding on tight to make sure he won‘t run.
„It‘s not a problem“, Matt whispers into Foggy‘s ear, eliciting a shiver in response. „It‘s not a problem at all.“
„Matt.“ Foggy swallows hard enough for it to shake both of their bodies. „Matt, what are you doing?“
At this point, Matt doesn‘t even know anymore. It started as a simple question, but didn‘t count on just how much he wants the answer to be yes.
It makes no sense. He likes Foggy, loves him, even, but that‘s because Foggy is family. Matt‘s not attracted to him. He can‘t be. He‘s straight, for crying out loud.
So then why is he doing this?
„Do you want me?“, he asks, surprised by the raw need in his own voice. Where did that come from? „Do you want to touch me, Foggy?“
Foggy‘s voice is barely even a whisper, but it rings loud and clear in Matt‘s ears. „More than anything.“
And God, his heart is beating out true true true, and Matt had no idea how much of a gut punch that would be.
In a good way.
It‘s like the first time he‘d donned the mask, when he‘d beaten that piece of shit rapist within an inch of his life and felt everything click into place.
He presses a lingering kiss to the side of Foggy‘s neck, and he doesn‘t need to be attracted to Foggy for the resulting whimper to go straight to his cock.
„You can“, he breathes, and he means it - God, does he mean it - but Foggy only stiffens in his embrace, shaking his head vigorously.
„This isn‘t real“, Foggy mutters, as if trying to convince himself. „This is a dream. I‘m dreaming about you while you are sleeping in my arms, and I‘m going to wake up in my own mess like a teenager and your super nose is going to smell it on me, but you won‘t bring it up so it won‘t be awkward, but it will be, and I‘ll spend the rest of my life wondering whether you heard me moaning your name.“
„I wouldn‘t mind hearing it“, Matt says, and it‘s the truth. How could he ever mind Foggy calling out his name in pleasure, not anger or fear? He shifts his hips so his cock - already hard beneath the blanket, when did that happen? - brushes against Foggy‘s back. „I really wouldn‘t mind.“
Foggy tenses again, then groans in frustration.
„Oh, to hell with it.“
There‘s a brief shuffle as he twists around, and suddenly, Foggy‘s hands are in Matt‘s hair and Foggy‘s mouth is on Matt‘s lips, pouring two decades' worth of pent up sexual tension into what quickly turns into a deep, searing kiss.
Somehow, Matt didn‘t expect the kissing part. He was planning on helping Foggy get off, and this is so much more intense, so much more intimate than that. So much more than he bargained for, but now that it‘s happening? It feels right.
Of course Foggy is a good kisser. The best one Matt‘s ever been with, in fact. Tender and attentive and passionate. Matt tries his best to keep up with him. He lets his shaky hands slide beneath Foggy‘s shirt, across the soft expanse of his belly, offering more.
Foggy pulls away long enough for Matt to take off his shirt, and then they‘re kissing again, skin pressed against skin.
It‘s good. So good. So, so good.
Matt lets himself sink backwards into the mattress and Foggy climbs on top of him, one knee prying apart Matt thighs with surprising strength.
If Matt hadn‘t been hard already, this would have done it.
„God, Matty, you‘re so gorgeous“, Foggy says, awestruck, his fingertips slowly raking down Matt‘s chest. „I could come just from looking at you.“
A shocked gasp escapes Matt‘s lips, followed by a low moan, because, straight or not, who wouldn‘t like to hear something like that?
He digs his heels into the mattress, clutches at the sheets so hard his knuckles must be going wide and throws back his head, exposing his throat and flexing his muscles in an attempt to look as debauched and wanton as he can, like he‘s trying to prove Foggy‘s claim right.
He is rewarded with a sharp spike of arousal in the air, filling his nose and lungs, strong enough to give him a contact high.
„Foggy ...“
„Say that again“, Foggy begs, pelvis grinding down on Matt‘s thigh, and Jesus, he‘s so hard. „Say my name again, just like that.“
„Foggy“, Matt repeats dutifully. „Foggy.“
Foggy swallows the name in a kiss, moaning as it hits the tongue like it‘s the finest wine he‘s ever tasted. His hands keep wandering up and down Matt‘s torso, lingering on every spot that draws a sigh or a shiver from Matt.
Matt is panting like he just fought off an entire gang of criminals by the time Foggy‘s mouth leaves his to kiss and nibble at the column of his throat instead.
„Foggy, you - you‘re amazing at this“, Matt stammers, lost in the dizzying, surreal pleasure of it all.
„I‘ve had good reviews“, Foggy replies, a little smugly. His palm presses down on Matt‘s abs for a moment, then starts creeping lower at an agonizingly slow pace. „Would you like to evaluate my skills for yourself?“
„God, yes.“
Matt doesn‘t even have to think about it. He‘s aching at this point, ready to go along with absolutely anything if it means Foggy will keep touching him.
And touch him Foggy does.
Foggy‘s hand on his cock is a revelation, hot and soft and perfect in every way. It‘s all the excitement of being touched for the very first time combined with the intimacy of being with someone who knows your body almost better than you do.
There‘s no logical explanation for why it feels that way, because this is their first time together, and Foggy‘s movements are still curious and exploratory, carefully testing the waters as his fingers curl around Matt‘s shaft and start stroking up and down in a slow rhythm, barely applying any pressure at all.
But it‘s Foggy, and no one knows Matt the way Foggy does. This ... this is just a physical extension of their bond. That must be why Matt has never felt this safe, this comfortable, this good with anyone else he‘s ever slept with.
Foggy‘s grip tightens around him and Matt curses under his breath. He lets go of the sheets to run his hands down Foggy‘s sides instead, equal parts soothed and fascinated by the give of the flesh there, plump and pliable beneath his fingers.
They kiss some more, slow and tender this time, tongues moving in time with the leisurely pump of Foggy‘s fist. It is Heaven.
„You feel so good, Matty“, Foggy mumbles against Matt‘s jaw, pressing quick little kisses into the scruff there. „Even better than I imagined.“
Foggy twists his hand in a very interesting way, thumb sweeping across the tip of Matt‘s cock, and Matt involuntarily digs his fingers into the flesh of Foggy‘s back, and even though it‘s probably hard enough to hurt, Foggy moans like it‘s the hottest thing that‘s ever happened to him.
His hand speeds up with a new sense of determination, no longer merely savoring the journey, but starting to push Matt towards climax.
It suddenly occurs to Matt that maybe, he should stop being a selfish lover and start touching Foggy back.
His hands travel from just below Foggy‘s shoulder blades down his spine, all the way to the waistband of his boxers. Matt hooks his fingers under the elastic and pulls, being hit with a mouthwatering mix of heat, precome and musky arousal as Foggy‘s erection springs free.
He cups the cheeks of Foggy‘s ass in his palms and squeezes, enjoying the supple, luxurious feel of the flesh in his hands. Foggy‘s hips twitch and his cock slides against Matt‘s thigh, hot and hard and leaving behind a trail of slick wetness, and absolutely none of that should be as much of a turn-on as it is.
Matt needs to feel it, and feel it now. Hungrily, he wraps one of his hands around Foggy‘s cock before he can even think about what he‘s doing.
The low moan that comes out of Foggy‘s mouth and reverberates through Matt‘s collarbones almost makes Matt come on the spot. Who knew Foggy Nelson could sound so fucking hot?
Foggy shifts a little to give Matt a better angle, but even so, Matt is temporarily lost as for what to do. Touch him like you would touch yourself, his mind helpfully supplies, but Foggy‘s cock doesn‘t feel like his own.
It‘s curved differently and slightly less girthy and oh, Foggy‘s uncut, and that‘s completely foreign territory for Matt.
It hits him, then, that he is holding another man‘s penis in his hand. That he is having sex with another man. With his best friend, no less.
And the weirdest thing about it is that despite the newness, it isn‘t weird at all.
His own pleasure temporarily forgotten, he moves his hand experimentally, pleasantly surprised by how smoothly the foreskin moves over the upper shaft and tip, easing the way despite the lack of lubrication. It‘s mesmerizing - the heat, the pulse, the satiny softness stretched over steely hardness, the slippery slide of it beneath Matt‘s fingers.
Matt never wants to stop doing this.
„Fuck, Foggy, you‘re so ... you‘re so hot, so hard for me, I can‘t-“
Foggy soothes him with a kiss. A chaste one, technically, although there is nothing chaste about the way his teeth drag across Matt‘s bottom lip when he pulls away.
„Jesus, Matty“, Foggy says, sounding completely and utterly wrecked. „Love the way you plead for me. Love the wa- fuck - love the way you touch me.“ He huffs out a laugh that turns into a moan halfway through. „Figures you‘d be a natural at this, too. You‘re fucking perfect, you know that? So fucking perfect, Matty.“
The praise somehow skips Matt‘s cock and goes straight to his soul instead, making tears sting in his eyes. He wants to be perfect, perfect for Foggy, wants to do right by him for once.
„For you“, he whispers, his free hand moving up to cradle Foggy‘s face. „Anything for you. I mean it, Fog. Anything.“
„Perfect“, Foggy says again, and the intensity of it makes Matt shudder. „My perfect Matt. How are you even real?“
He turns his head slightly to press reverent kisses to Matt‘s palm.
„Matt? Can you do something for me, babe?“
„Anything“, Matt repeats with an eagerness that shocks him. He likes the idea of Foggy telling him what to do. The pressure it takes off him. The opportunity to please Foggy, to serve him.
That‘s why he‘s doing this, isn‘t it? As a way to express his gratitude?
Foggy groans, his grip tightening on Matt‘s cock, forcing a strangled shout from Matt‘s lungs. „Can I make you come first? I want to watch you, Matty. I want to see the look in your eyes when you come undone.“
It‘s a simple enough request, but the way Foggy phrases it makes it seem so intimate, like he wants to see some vulnerable, private part of Matt he‘s never shown anyone else before, something much more meaningful than his orgasm face.
How could Matt say no to that?
„Yes“, he breathes and pulls Foggy in for a hungry, filthy kiss, like he‘s trying to fuck Foggy‘s mouth with his tongue. The desperate little gasps Foggy makes alone are worth it.
Foggy‘s hand speeds up while Matt‘s slows down to a teasing caress, just trying to keep Foggy where he is right now, dancing on the edge, but with no risk of tipping over.
Matt is leaking now, and Foggy drags the heel of his palm across the tip, gathering up the offering of fluid and spreading it across Matt‘s shaft so he can go even faster without the dry drag of skin on skin becoming too much.
The resulting wet sounds are nothing short of perverted.
Foggy‘s mouth leaves Matt‘s to lick and nip at his throat instead, teeth sinking into the sensitive crook of his neck just hard enough to hurt.
A noise tumbles from Matt‘s lips that was either supposed to be ‚Foggy‘ or ‚fuck‘, and Foggy snickers. „Thought you‘d like that.“
Foggy does it again, harder this time, and Matt can‘t even make a noise this time, merely sucks in a breath, his entire body pulling taut as a bowstring.
„Close“, he chokes out. „So close, Foggy.“
One more playful bite, and Foggy sits up on his knees, presumably to get a better view of the action.
„I can tell“, he says, flexing his fingers for emphasis. „You‘re throbbing. It‘s like I‘m holding your heart in my hand.“
Matt whines, low in his throat, because that‘s exactly what Foggy is doing. It makes him feel exposed, seen in a way that‘s both terrifying and ecstatic.
„Come for me, Matty“, Foggy says and Matt does, his whole body collapsing in on itself as spurts of liquid heat paint his stomach.
His hand stills on Foggy‘s cock, so Foggy fucks his fist instead, mumbling words of praise as he keeps stroking Matt through his orgasm, and somehow, it‘s the most erotic thing Matt has ever experienced.
„You‘re so good, Matt. So gorgeous. Everything I‘ve ever dreamed of. God, you don‘t even know how utterly fucking beautiful you are.“
Matt basks in the praise like a cat in a sunbeam, and he wills his hand to move again even though he‘s still trembling with the aftershocks of his own climax. Foggy is still bucking into it, still babbling semi-coherently, chanting Matt‘s name over and over again.
„So good, Matty. So good, baby. Just- just keep going, just like that, Matty. Gonna come. Gonna come so hard, Matt. Shoot my load all over that perfect body of yours.“
Of course, Matt has always known Foggy has quite a mouth on him, but this? This is something else, shameless and dirty and like nothing he could have imagined. It puts all the porn he‘s had to overhear over the years to shame.
For a moment, he wonders whether this is what Foggy is like with everyone or whether it‘s for Matt‘s benefit, giving him a show he can enjoy without his sight. The thought is oddly sweet.
„Do it“, Matt encourages him, eager to repay the favor. Dirty talk has never been a part of his sexual repertoire, but for Foggy, he‘s willing to try. „Finish on me. Paint me with your come. I want to feel and smell you all over me, Fog.“
„Oh my god, Matt“, Foggy moans and his cock twitches in Matt‘s fingers, thick spurts of hot come joining the ones that are already cooling on Matt‘s belly.
Their smells mingle, similar but distinct, Foggy a bit sharper than Matt, a little less musky. They‘re good together, in a really strange way, and Matt can‘t resist dragging his fingers through the mess, spreading it across his chest while Foggy watches him so intensely, Matt doesn‘t need his eyes to be able to tell.
Matt keeps pumping, caressing, squeezing, wringing every last drop out of Foggy‘s balls, until Foggy can‘t stand it anymore and pulls away, flopping down beside him on the bed, completely spent.
They both lie there for what must be several minutes, both equally out of breath, which seems a little odd considering that both of them are used to very different levels of exercise.
Matt has the presence of mind to feel around for the towel, which has ended up on the floor at some point, and wipe himself clean before the semen on his skin has a chance to congeal, because as much of a turn-on being covered in it had been in the heat of battle (so to speak), it‘s far less pleasant in the afterglow.
„Wow“, Foggy says and it sounds far away, like he‘s slowly waking up from a daze.
„Yeah“, Matt agrees, voice hoarse as the weight of what they just did starts to sink in.
He‘s had sex with Foggy.
And he liked it. A lot.
It figures that the best sex Matt has ever had would be an act of penance for being a fuck-up who keeps ruining his best friend‘s life.
What was he thinking?
There‘s no coming back from this. This is going to change things.
Next to him, Foggy barks out a nervous, slightly hysterical laugh. „That was ...“
He doesn‘t finish the sentence.
„Yeah.“
„Why didn‘t we do this sooner?“
What he really means is ‚Why didn‘t you say anything?‘ and Matt doesn‘t have an answer for that.
„I don‘t know“, he admits. „I should‘ve offered.“
Yes. Maybe he should have. The sheer, incredulous joy of having Matt in his bed radiating from Foggy makes Matt feel selfish for denying him this for so long.
This may be a bad idea (it definitely is), but it seems like such an easy thing to do for his friend. Foggy has given him so much time, energy and patience, has sacrificed no small part of his dignity for Matt, the least Matt can do in return is give Foggy his body.
On the other hand, this is uncharted territory for them. Uncharted territory that also happens to be a minefield.
„Is ... Is this going to happen again?“, Foggy asks, uncharacteristically shy.
„If you want it to“, Matt offers and dear God, does he want Foggy to take him up on it.
Foggy stirs next to him and rolls onto his side, sliding his fingers into Matt‘s hair.
„Matthew“, he says with all the solemnity of a eulogy. Or wedding vows. „The sexiest man I‘ve ever laid eyes on just gave me one of the greatest sexual experiences of my life and is willing to do it again. What do you think my answer is going to be?“
Matt can‘t help the dopey, relieved smile that spreads across his face.
„Say it anyway?“
„Yes, goddammit“, Foggy groans and from the sound of his voice, he is smiling, too. „You‘re not a ‚one and done‘ for me, Matt. You never could be. I‘ll always want you.“
Matt fucking shatters.
He had no idea how much he needed to hear those exact words. How long he‘s been yearning for someone to want him. How much he‘s wanted Foggy to be that person, because Foggy is kind and brilliant and stupidly loyal and way too good to be tainted by Matt, but Matt, selfishly, needs him in his life anyway.
He‘ll do anything to make that happen.
(Anything short of hanging up the suit.)
Matt takes Foggy‘s face in both of his hands and crashes their mouths together in a clumsy, needy, borderline violent kiss. He pushes Foggy over onto his back, climbs on top of him, straddling his hips, and claims his mouth like it‘s his birthright.
He can do that now. Foggy doesn‘t mind. Foggy loves it. Really, he‘s doing Foggy a favor here, it‘s just a happy coincidence that being this close to Foggy also happens to feel amazing.
Matt‘s about ready for another round when the digital clock on the night stand springs to life with the blaring sound of classic hard rock.
She had the sightless eyes, telling me no lies
Knocking me out with those American thighs
Taking more than her share, had me fighting for air
She told me to come, but I was already there
Foggy groans out loud and lightly thumps his head against the headrest in frustration. „Ugh, it‘s too early for AC/DC.“
„I didn‘t even get to shake you all night long“, Matt agrees with a mock pout. „Just twenty minutes.“
He gets smacked in the head with a pillow for it.
„You‘re so corny, Murdock.“
Foggy brushes a small kiss to his lips and sighs. „We should probably get up, though. We both need showers and you need to go home to put your costume away and change into some proper work clothes. Wouldn‘t want to give poor Mrs. Kahan a heart attack by showing up to her appointment in sweatpants and smelling like sex.“
„Can normal people smell that?“, Matt asks as he reluctantly rolls off of Foggy and opens the top of the dresser to pull out his spare clothes.
„If it‘s just happened? Yeah, definitely. At least if there‘s semen involved. Or a lot of sweat.“
„Huh. Didn‘t know that.“
It‘s nice, bantering like this, the way they always have. Maybe they can just do this, and nothing else needs to change.
Maybe it‘s going to be fine.