#and when she stops hearing from Larry she goes to Karen first and when she just gets a ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ she shows up at G’s door next and he says | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

pomegranate-belle · 4 years

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Fic or Treat: how about smth based on your post the other day where Foggy doesn't realize he's in love with Matt 'objectively 11/10, anything less is heresy' Murdock? 😂 (it's been DAYS & i'm still thinking abt it so here we are LOL)

So this is somehow simultaneously set before Defenders and after DDS3 idk man, whatever.

Props to @kat8porgs and @thosemintcookies and @letsgetthisblog for helping me come up with some Dudes Hotter Than Matt Murdock, lol

—

Matt Murdock is pretty much the hottest guy on the planet. It’s an objective fact. There’s a lot of times Foggy despairs of this, but he’s never once questioned it; his best friend is a solid 10/10. Probably 11/10 when he does that one really sappy smile that only makes an appearance when he’s completely at ease or super drunk.

Misty Knight does not seem to agree, based on the unimpressed look on her face.

And look, there’s no accounting for taste, but Matt’s on another level. His appeal is undeniably universal. Like, as much as people have teased Foggy about fawning over Matt, it’s not gay or anything. Really. He’s just secure enough in his masculinity to be able to recognize how unfairly smokin’ hot his bff is. It’s a purely platonic observation, and the proof is that everyone else thinks Matt’s hot too.

“He’s not hot,” Misty says flatly, pushing Foggy’s phone back to the center of the cafe table.

It’s got one of Foggy’s best pictures of Matt on it — sitting at his desk in their office, hands scanning over some document or other and a look of intense concentration on his face. The lighting’s just right to show the red in his glasses and highlight his jaw.

“Are you high?” Foggy demands, jabbing a finger at the screen. “Just look at him! He’s beautiful!”

Misty snorts, then puts up her hands when Foggy glares at her.

“Look,” she begins, very obviously and condescendingly humoring him, “I’m not saying he’s ugly or anything, but when you say ‘ungodly man-beauty’ I expect to see some, y’know, ungodly man beauty. This? This is a generic-looking white boy.”

She’s lost it. That’s the only explanation. There’s nothing generic about Matt. Foggy tells her so, and her eyes sharpen a little with interest, though her mouth stays firmly in that ‘oh you poor fool’ smirk. In truth, maybe challenging a headstrong detective isn’t the smartest move; Misty is very perceptive. Not that Foggy has anything to hide. Because he doesn’t. And even if he did, he’s not necessarily known for making smart, rational decisions. Case in point: knocking out mobsters with a baseball bat, associating with someone reckless enough to earn the moniker Daredevil, and dating Marci Stahl not just once but twice.

Misty spins the phone back around and takes a second look, but there’s no dawning realization in her eyes. She shakes her head.

“And you couldn’t have gotten a picture sometime after he remembered how to use a razor?” she asks.

Foggy, of course, is offended on behalf of Matt’s pleasantly stubbly jaw. Matt looks good all the time, but he looks a lot less baby-faced with a little bit of facial hair — Foggy’s not sure whether a full-on beard would work well for Matt, but the stubble looks just right.

“The scruffiness is part of his charm!” he insists.

“He looks like a sad hobo in a business suit,” comes Misty’s totally ruthless reply.

Foggy has to gather his phone to his chest to protect Matt’s picture from such hurtful words.

“Sad hobo? We’re not talking about Rand again, are we? Because I got an earful from Hogarth the last time I suggested someone that rich should get better-fitted suits,” a familiar voice cuts in.

“Marci!” Foggy perks up — at last, a voice of cold, neutral sanity! “You’re finally here!”

Marci rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling with one eyebrow quirked and her arms subtly open — her usual ‘give me a hug’ posture.

“You didn’t think I’d miss a girls’ day out, did you?”

There’s a sudden, unexpected rush of relief and joy through Foggy’s veins as he thinks about their rekindled friendship. No matter how rough their first breakup was or how awkward their second, he’d missed her a lot in the years they weren’t speaking. He slips his phone into his pocket, then folds Marci into a hug.

“It’s good to see you too, Foggy Bear. I hear it’s been a busy month for you. Getting into heated disagreements with law enforcement again?”

As if he does it all the time! Really, it’s just bickering with Brett. And the people on the vigilante task forces. And those guys who’d been hassling Luke. And... Ok, maybe she has a point. Foggy clears his throat.

“Listen, that’s not important. I need you to tell Misty that she’s crazy. She says Matt’s not objectively attractive. But you saw, he had tons of dates in college, obviously all the girls thought he was hot.”

Marci gives Foggy a pitying smile that begins to erode his confidence with stomach-twisting effectiveness.

“Sweetie, the reason Murdock got so many dates was because he was confident but not a sexist jackhole.” She smirks. “Well. And because he was a big slut and everybody knew it. It’s not like there weren’t hotter guys on campus.”

“Name one,” Foggy orders, putting his hands on his hips like his Ma used to whenever he and Theo broke a window with their baseball.

Marci is a known bitch so she begins listing people off on her fingers.

“That guy Wyatt that Jen Walters started dating after you two broke up. The exchange student from Wakanda that quit second year. Eddie Brock on a good day. Sam Wilson every day. Cranston that one time in 2L when he was definitely trying to score with you. Shall I go on?”

“Tried to—” Foggy’s head is spinning, and he loses whatever argument he’d been cooking up about Matt’s hotness relative to these other guys. “Larry Cranston was a straight up dick, he never tried to score with me!”

“He definitely tried to score with you,” insists Marci. “At that post-midterm party first semester. But he’d already insulted Murdock by that point so you’d erased him from your dating pool and didn’t notice.”

“Well— then good riddance,” Foggy decides.

He continues to argue with Marci and Misty both until Karen arrives. Her face tells Foggy she’s somewhere between concerned and amused, but not enough to stop over before she’s got her drink in hand.

“The last time I saw you this fired up you were taking DA Tower to task,” she greets him. “What’s going on?”

“These two—” Foggy gestures at Marci and Misty— “have clearly lost it.”

“You’re the odd one out here,” says Misty.

But if he can get Karen to join his side, he won’t be — it’ll be fifty-fifty again.

“Look, unlike everyone else in this room she actually dated Matt, she’s got to agree with me. He’s objectively super hot, right, Karen?”

Karen blinks. Then she glances out the window and takes a long, awkward slurp of her coffee. Foggy throws his hands in the air. His perception of the world is literally crumbling around him. Or else everyone else has gone nuts.

“Karen, come on!” Foggy all but pleads. “You dated him!”

“Because he was really sweet to me! It’s not like someone has to be Adonis for me to date them, Foggy, I’m not that shallow! I mean, I like how he looks well enough, but he’s not as hot as, I don’t know, Idris Elba or Jason Momoa or somebody.”

She seems unbothered by the assertion. But, the thing is... Well, movie stars are all well and good, Foggy supposes, but they don’t have Matt’s... Matt-ness. That perfect, undefinable, essence-of-Matt thing that accentuates his natural beauty. Foggy doesn’t know how even Karen could have missed it, but Foggy’s got evidence on his side. He thumbs through the photos on his phone again, stopping on one from a couple months ago.

It’s of Matt, obviously. A closer shot, facing him head on. His hair is ruffled, his glasses are off, and there are small, happy little crinkles at the corner of his eyes. His smile is earnest and stunning. There’s a single fading bruise on his jaw. It’s Foggy’s absolute favorite picture of Matt, incontrovertible proof that Matt’s happiness isn’t trapped in rosy memories of the past. Proof that Daredevil is still Matt, still Foggy’s Matt, that the solid core of their friendship was never a lie.

Foggy wasn’t gonna use this — his final resort — because it’s... It’s private, and close to his heart. Matt keeps these smiles hidden, doesn’t show them to just anybody or for just any reason. It makes Foggy feel like he should guard them too. But the others just don’t get it, and Foggy’s determined to make them understand. Squaring his shoulders, he shoves his phone at Misty.

“There!” he snaps. “Ok? Just— just look at that smile and tell me he’s only average!”

Misty accepts the phone and studies the picture on it for a long, long time.

“I’ll give you the smile,” she admits at last, handing it back. “It is a nice one. But it still only bumps him up to 7/10.”

Foggy’s jaw drops.

“That’s ridiculous!”

“It isn’t though, Foggy Bear,” sighs Marci, raking her manicured nails through her hair. “It’s totally reasonable, you just can’t make an objective judgment because you’re literally in love with him.”

Foggy laughs, but it sounds strained and hysterical even to his own ears.

“Of course I’m not in love with him.”

Karen reaches out and squeezes his shoulder with a look on her face that makes Foggy want to scream.

“Foggy...”

“I’m not!”

Because he’s not. He isn’t, he can’t be. He can’t be in love with Matt, because that would suck. Not loving Matt, any idiot would be lucky to do that, but... Matt has a Type. And regardless of what Marci and Misty and Karen say about Matt’s own attractiveness, it’s at least true that the people Matt goes for are always super beautiful women. That being the criteria, Foggy’s a perfect zero out of a hundred. Being in love with Matt would be an exercise in futility, and more than a little pathetic.

“I’m not, I...” Foggy tries again, staring down at the picture of Matt smiling. “I...” His heart squeezes in his chest. “Oh, god, I’m in love with him.”

When Foggy manages to look up, the others are watching him with concern. That seems appropriate, because he himself is also very concerned, beneath the numbness of his shock.

“Oh, Foggy Bear...” Marci sighs. “I’m sorry. I thought you just didn’t want to admit it out loud. I never realized you didn’t actually know.”

Foggy takes a shaky breath, squeezes his eyes shut until he’s sure he’s not gonna start crying.

“This sucks,” he says, trying to make light of it and failing epically when his voice breaks.

Even though she looks the most uncomfortable, Misty is the first to speak.

“Isn’t it better to know?”

“Not even a little,” Foggy says miserably. “Because he won’t— he wouldn’t want...”

“You don’t know that, Foggy,” Karen tells him.

But he does know that. Matt has a Type, and Foggy isn’t it. He shakes his head.

“What... What am I supposed to do now...?”

“Now,” Karen says firmly, grabbing one of his hands and lacing their fingers together, “we go have our girls’ day out.”

It’s Marci’s turn to choose, so Foggy expects to spend the afternoon day-drinking away his feelings. Instead, he ends up at an animal shelter.

Marci does not like dogs, but she’s very partial to kittens, and doesn’t even seem to mind all the fur getting on her designer clothes. Meanwhile, Karen spends her time making goofy cooing noises to a particularly happy pit bull, and Misty plays fetch with an excitable golden retriever.

“It’s just like Danny,” she jokes, startling a laugh out of Foggy for the first time since his unfortunate realization.

For his own part, Foggy plays a little with as many of the animals as he can, but he’s especially fond of an orange tabby that likes to pounce off of high places. Because of course that’s the one that catches his eye, right? Foggy is, he’s beginning to realize, completely hopeless.

Truthfully, though, hanging out with Misty, Karen, Marci, and the animals does manage to do a good job of keeping his mind off the whole Matt Thing entirely — right up until they drop him off at his apartment. Afterwards, well, there’s nothing to distract him. Foggy spends the evening moping, and maybe eats too much ice cream before curling up under the covers and taking an early night.

—

He wakes at what the red numbers on his alarm clock assure him is 3:17am. There’s a rapid, ceaseless knocking on his window. Foggy takes a good five seconds to groan into his pillow and then forces himself to get up.

However, he’s barely climbed out of his bed before he’s tackled back into it. A very familiar idiot in a black mask is pinning him to the sheets, gloved hands on his shoulders, knees bracketing his hips.

“Foggy, Foggy—”

“Matt what the fuck?” Foggy wheezes, because— really, what the fuck?

Matt rips off his mask and throws it somewhere. He’s grinning like an idiot, and even in the low light Foggy can tell that the look in his eyes is tender but exhilarated.

“You’re in love with me?” Matt asks, breathless and giddy.

The combination of those words with that unexpected tone means Foggy has to give his brain a few seconds to reboot before he can reply.

“I. I’m. Yes?”

Matt’s smile becomes somehow more dazzling.

“Good,” he says, like a big dork, and tugs Foggy up into a kiss.

It’s a good kiss. Like, a really good kiss. So good that maybe it takes Foggy a few minutes of really good kissing and one pinch to his own arm to be sure it’s not a dream.

Eventually, probably because it’s literally 3:30 in the freaking morning, Matt flops himself down on Foggy’s chest and his ardor cools into sleepy, catlike nuzzling.

“I love you too,” he offers at last, about fifteen minutes after he really ought to have, still pressing tiny kisses to Foggy’s throat.

Foggy can only laugh and gather him closer, disbelief and joy fizzing in his chest like soda.

“Yeah. I kind of figured.”

—

It’s 8:42 the next morning when Foggy thinks to ask what exactly tipped Matt off about his feelings. Matt’s posture gets cagey and sheepish.

“What?” Foggy asks. “Is it really that bad?”

“Well...”

Matt pulls his cell phone out of his pocket and holds it out for Foggy to take. After some silent prompting, Foggy accepts it and navigates to voicemail amidst the narration of the phone’s screen reader. There’s one message. Cautiously, Foggy clicks play.

“Hey!” Marci’s voice says loudly. “Hey! Answer your phone Murdock, I know you don’t sleep! Fucker.”

She’s pretty clearly drunk. The voicemail only gets more angry and incoherent from there; Foggy’s pretty sure she calls Matt ‘Wal-Mart brand white bread’ at one point, which... Ouch. But she also says a lot of sappy stuff about Foggy deserving the world. And then it returns to the insults when she says that if Matt wasn’t ‘too busy cultivating a greasy Castaway beard’ he would have admitted his ‘stupid, stu— smoof— smooch— schmoopy, that’s the one, schmoopy’ feelings by now because Foggy loves him too and they’re both big idiots making themselves sad for no reason.

“Ah,” Foggy murmurs when the message finally, finally ends. “Well. That’s... Something.”

Matt nods, chokes out a laugh.

“Pretty much,” he agrees.

“Um. I... I’m really sorry about her.”

“No. I, um... I’m glad. You know. That she called,” Matt tells him, and wow that earnest face is too intense for Foggy’s poor weak heart. “I.” Matt straightens his shoulders, takes a deep breath. “I love you.”

“Yeah,” Foggy says wonderingly. “You do, don’t you?”

He can see it now, on Matt’s face — and he suddenly realizes it’s been there a long time, that part of Matt’s indescribable beauty, his Matt-ness, is... Being-in-love-with-Foggy-ness. That Foggy makes Matt as happy as Matt makes him.

“Foggy,” Matt whines, mouth curling down into a slight pout.

“What?” And then it hits him. “Oh! Right. Yeah. I love you too, Matty.”

And like magic, like the flash of sunlight reflecting off glass, it’s back again — Matt’s perfect smile.

#mattfoggy #fic or treat #daredevil #writing #ellicelluella

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peaceandlonglife · 7 years

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Focus On Me | A Daredevil Fanfiction

Pairing: Matt Murdock/Franklin "Foggy" Nelson Words: 5.7k Summary: Foggy does things for other people, so when he decides to take a bath, it isn't a surprise that he won't be alone for long.(AKA: The abundant, self-indulgent ramblings of an author desperately trying to validate their need to write Foggy having a bubble bath by crafting a plot.)

Read on AO3 or Read On Wattpad

*Story & Cover Below*

Foggy was a selfless man. He always put others before himself; choosing to devote his spare time to the cases he took on with no expectation of payment. He was also adept in maintaining the wellbeing of those around him, even when his own sanity was on the verge of crumbling down.

This innate trait was also what prompted such an opposed opinion on the news of Daredevil's identity in the first place, but over time his view began to change. For Matt, Daredevil was his sanity, it was such a deeply ingrained part of his being that it was cruel to expect him to deny such an instinctual persona. It was a bizarre coping mechanism for his traumatizing childhood and what kind of best friend would Foggy be if he didn't support his decision?

It wasn't long after that that he signed up for a first-aid course. He didn't just take the standard first-aid course, - you know, the basic résumé crowd pleaser - but in typical Foggy fashion, he took the advanced, eighty hour course. For Matt.

It was in the dingy community buildings basement that Foggy proudly received his certificate in a short and intimate graduation ceremony. Karen and Matt made sure to sit front and centre in the metal fold out chairs. Out of the dozen or so participants, Foggy, by far, received the loudest applause...and a few gracious catcalls courtesy of the finest secretary in all the Hell's Kitchen area.

And just like any other typical community organized event, it was followed immediately by a complimentary luncheon of various supermarket meat and veggie platers. Matt got to take home the leftovers, but that was only because the able-bodied instructor felt guilty about his blindness. It didn't make any sense, but who were they to deny free food? Lord knows they could use it.

The next step in Foggy's 'Help: My Best Friend Is A Vigilante!' handbook was to stock his apartment as if it were a tiny little hospital. Claire helped immensely with this process; she was relieved and grateful that Matt would finally have greater access to immediate medical help instead of just bleeding out in a dumpster (Foggy had learnt that that was a thing).

Of course, Foggy was no medically trained professional but it made a world of difference to a stubborn guy in a costume with devil horns that refused to go to the hospital. Claire did - thankfully - fill Foggy in on some very Daredevil specific injuries that weren't covered in his course, such as; how to safely extract throwing stars from human flesh for when your blind idiot decides to take on a cult of highly-trained ninjas. Solution: Check if your idiot is going to live, if so, take a quick second to praise the almighty God that they can still move and smack them upside the head for almost dying. Now that was priceless knowledge.

After all this; all the time and energy he had sacrificed, Foggy more than deserved a break.

So when Foggy does finally decide to pamper himself, he goes all out. With one extra large pizza - extra toppings - from the high-end pizzeria around the block, a six pack of locally brewed specialty beer, enough 80's action movies to last through the night and an unopened bottle of unscented bubble bath, life was good.

Oddly enough, it wasn't the pizza, Foggy was most ecstatic about, it was the bubble bath. Okay, not exactly the bubble bath itself, but what it entailed; a bath.

Currently Foggy was a VIP member in The Elite Group Of Those Who Have Never Bathed In Their Adult Life. It wasn't that he was against baths per se, he had just never got around to having one. In fact, it was the vintage claw footed bathtub that originally prompted Foggy to fall in love with his apartment all those years ago.

So now, Foggy was sprawled across his couch, the springs squeaking as he shifted his weight to reach for a fourth beer. Top Gun was nearing the end and so was his pizza, which had long since gone cold. He didn't mind though.

It wasn't late by any means, but Foggy was already being to feel the trance-like effects of exhaustion from the gruelling week starting to catch up to him. If he had already successfully fought it off this long, he could go a few more hours.

Not long after, the credits begin to roll and Foggy lazily pulls himself off of the couch. On his way to the bathroom, he accidentally kicks over a few empty cans that clang loudly as they scatter across the hard, cold floor.

Foggy switches on the bathroom light and the florescent lights started to slowly blind him as they warmed up to full brightness. It most definitely the most ideal setting to have a relaxing bath, and that wasn't including that persistent low hum they emitted that was just barely audible yet somehow it would fester under your skin and in the back of your mind until you went mad.

He really should have bought some candles.

Now that he actively aware and listening for the hum, Foggy immediately switched them off. His phone had a flashlight, that could work, right?

He pulls out his phone and turns on the light. He then sets it down on the floor, face down, the light projecting on the ceiling and bathing the room in an soft, ominous glow. In this scenario, ominous was the more appealing option.

Foggy looks contemplatively down at his cheap creased suit that he hadn't bothered to change out of, at the empty bath and then back again. What was he supposed to do first? Get naked and then run the bath, or run the bath and then get naked?

It was a classic example of 'which comes first?' The chicken or the egg? The milk or the cereal? The left leg or the right leg? These were the hard-hitting life questions. The ones where only one answer is socially acceptable and all others are shunned into silent exile.

Foggy waits till the bath was half full and frothing with bubbles before he steps in. That was a mistake because it was freezing, so he turns the temperate up. The next thing he knows, it's scalding, but just as the tub was nearing capacity the temperature decides to cooperate. Who knew bathing would turn into such a goldilocks scenario? A bath certainly would've made more sense then personifying bears that sleep in beds and live in houses and make porridge for breakfast.

With the water now off, there was nothing but dead silence. It was eerie, he wasn't used to it growing up in Hell's Kitchen. There where no wailing sirens or traffic racing past his building or the dull throb of bass emanating from a particularly loud party, no unexpected explosions and there were no gunshots ringing out into the night. Foggy was grateful for those two, especially knowing for a fact that Daredevil would be out prowling the streets right about now.

So as a distraction for the lack of distractions, Foggy closes his eyes and turns his undivided attention to himself. He'd focus on his breathing, a deep breath in and a long exhale out. He notices the way his chest expands as his diaphragm contracts and his lungs fill with oxygen.

Foggy pays special attention the rhythmic beating of his heart and how it began to slow as his body starts to relax under the comforting warm water. If he focused long and hard enough he could almost convince himself that he could hear his heartbeat with his own ears. It was baffling to say the least that Matt had the ability to hear and then identify it as him from miles away if he so chose to, and then to be able to tell if someone was lying by noting the subtle rhythmic changes? It was insane. Foggy still had a hard time wrapping his head around that whole ordeal, but he wasn't as bothered by it now as when he first found out. That was just who Matt was, he couldn't shut it off and he had to accept that.

Foggy opens his eyes and sighs. No, no thoughts about Matt, this was strictly Foggy time. Foggy and a non-existent rubber duck that he adds it to his equally imaginary list of things he should have purchased. He ponders what the cashier would think if he just went out the next day and bought several dozen candles and a rubber duck. Whatever the reaction, he would definitively find out tomorrow.

It had to be the bubbles that was making him nostalgic for his childhood duck, Mr. Quakers. Maybe he'd name his new duck Mrs. Quakers in his honour, but now that Foggy thinks about it, he was pretty sure Mr. Quakers would've preferred a companion of the male variety. He'd name his new duck Mr. Quakers, but you know, the other Mr. Quakers.

Foggy laughs out loud at the ridiculous thought, the sound echoing ever so lightly against the bare walls. This still doesn't stop his mind from wandering further and questioning what really happened to his imaginary friend, Larry.

Eventually his rampant thoughts begin to dampen and gradually lull him to a dreamless sleep.

•••

It was a large crash that startled Foggy awake. The water in the bath had turned cold and his skin seemed to take on the appearance of a very large white raisin. There was another crash, and then the bathroom door busts open.

"Matt?" Foggy takes a shot in the dark, literally, because his phones flashlight was no longer on, it must have died.

He wonders how long he'd been sleeping. It was still dark outside and the moon was now very faintly shining through the open bathroom door. It backlit the man, giving him a glowing outline.

"Foggy? Is that you? Are you in here?" The voice was unmistakably Matt's, and he sounded panicked and scared. It was unusual and deeply worrying. How come he couldn't tell Foggy was right there?

"Matt, Buddy, are you okay? Just give me one second." Foggy steps out of the bath, dripping water on the floor and carefully walking towards the light switch with the little light provided. He switches it on and it takes a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the brightness.

Matt had since fallen to his knees on the floor. His daredevil suit had been aggressively slashed stained in blood, and from the looks of it, it seemed to be mostly his. It was a horrible sight to see. In Matt's hand was his mask, which revealed to potentially worst injury of all; his ears and how they were profusely bleeding.

Foggy drops down beside his friend and grabs the first aid kit under the bathroom sink. "What happened?"

"There was some kind of ultrasonic bomb and I- I can barely hear anything over all this...ringing." His voices cracks as he helplessly whimpers "I can't hear, Foggy."

Foggy could feel his chest tighten and throat constrict in the telltale sign of oncoming tears. He takes Matt's hand for comfort, for whose, he wasn't sure. "It's okay. Everything is going to be alright. Do you want me to call Claire?"

"No!" He exclaims in a sudden wave of panic. "Please....that won't be necessary."

"Okay, okay! I won't." Foggy replies quickly. He could help Matt, couldn't he? Most of the wounds seemed manageable, but his hearing was what really had Foggy worried. He'd love a second, professional opinion but if Matt was certain, he could trust him.

Matt chokes back his own tears in distress. "Thank you."

"What are best friends for, huh?" Foggy pats him gently on an unharmed section of thigh. By now a few persistent tears had escaped his eyes, blurring his vision greatly. He had to wipe them away with the back of his hand to see what he was digging through in his well-used first-aid kit.

Foggy sets out his conveniently recently purchased gauze and alcohol swabs and looks back at Matt. He couldn't possibly bandage all his wounds with his suit still on. "Matt, do you think you can take off your suit?"

"Yeah, just...give me a sec." Matt carefully shifts his body so he was no longer sitting on his legs and that they were out in front of him, revealing even more open wounds. Thankfully, most were only superficial, the others though would no doubt require stitches. Foggy hated giving stitches.

Damn, did he slip in a knife factory? He wouldn't put it past him.

Matt reaches back over his shoulder, grimacing as he agitated his injuries further. "Here, let me do that for you." Foggy moves behind him, trying to locate what he was reaching for but failing miserably. "Umm...a little help?"

Foggy begins to feel Matt convulse, immediately an indescribable fear paralyzes his movements. Then he heard the last thing he was expecting, a laugh. Matt was laughing. Matt was okay. "There's a zipper, Fogs."

"I don't see one."

Matt laughs again, but this time a little too hard. He doubles over, clutching his ribs. "I'm okay." He croaks and dares to laugh once more. That devil. "It's not supposed to be visible. I'd ruin my aesthetic."

"And what? Your horns don't?"

Matt sighs patiently. "Just...feel for it."

Foggy bites his bottom lip, hands hovering over his back. He was scared to touch him, he looked so fragile, despite knowing quite the contrary. But he sucks up his hesitance and presses his fingertips against Matt's shoulder blades at first, then methodically exploring till he feels the cool metal of a zipper. Foggy leans in close -finger on the zipper for a reference point- and is baffled when he still couldn't see it. It was sorcery, it had to be.

Foggy follows the metal ridge upwards to the base of Matt's neck and carefully begins unzipping. His typically smooth, pale skin was spattered in coagulated blood. Bruises in a varying array of hues covered his flesh like a twisted artists' canvas. "Can you get your arms?" Matt grabs hold of the fabric from Foggy and slips his muscular arms out. The suit piles loosely around his waist, on the floor. It physically pained him to see evidence of just how cruel the world could be.

"I'm going to try and clean up some of the blood on you now." Foggy stands up before the sink, turning it on and waiting for the water to heat up. In the meantime he reaches for the nearest towel and tosses it on Matt's lap; he jolts in surprise. Oops. "Sorry. I'm not sure what to do for your ears so uh...just press that against them. Maybe it'll stop the bleeding, I don't know. I must have missed the sophisticated weaponry portion of my first-aid training." It was a lousy joke, but Foggy detected a hint of a smile on Matt's lips. It didn't last long though.

Matt picks up the towel and blindly wipes up the blood that has trickled down his neck before unfolding it and wrapping the towel around the back of his head so he could apply pressure to both his ears. "I feel trapped without all the noise. I-I can't hear your heartbeat Foggy."

Foggy grabs a washcloth and tosses it under the running tap. "Would this help?" He bends down and takes Matt's hand, the towel falling from his right ear. Foggy presses Matt's hand against his bare chest.

Matt's eyes close and fingers sprawl as he leans unknowingly into the contact. He breathes out, grounding himself to the familiar patter of Foggy's heartbeat, except this time it was abnormally fast-paced. This concerned Matt. "Are you alright?"

Foggy chuckles awkwardly. "Besides being freaked out of my damn mind? Yeah, I think I'm alright."

"I don't mean to worry you." Matt mumbles. "I shouldn't be your problem."

"You're not a problem, but you are mine." He was surprised as the words slipped so effortlessly from of his mouth, and even more surprised that he meant them, wholeheartedly.

Matt exhales awkwardly. "Thanks. I-I think I'm good now."

Foggy stands back up and turns off the sink. He picks up the washcloth lying at the bottom and wrings it out. "Warm washcloth incoming." He warns before dropping to his knees once again.

He starts by gently working off the dried blood - avoiding the forming scabs, no matter how bad his inner child wanted to pick at them-, then moving onto the wounds that were still bleeding with an alternating pattern of pressure and wiping away access blood. While tending the smaller problems, Foggy takes mental notes of all the cuts that needed stitches and a quick ocular once over for any visually dislocated joints or broken bones. He'd have to do a closer examination later but from what he could see Matt was clear on those fronts.

Foggy finishes up Matt's back and then realizes he has to clean up his chest next. He shuffles over to his front. "I'm just, uh...just gonna put my legs on either side of yours so I can get all this-" Foggy gestures to his chest in a circular motion. Even without his super senses, Matt had no problem deducing what he was motioning. They'd been best friends for years, after all.

The position wasn't quite as awkward as Foggy thought it would be, he was more focused on getting Matt looked after. At one point he got tired enough holding himself up in one solitary position -he may be thinner than he was in college, but he certainly wasn't more in shape- that he just leant forward and rested his forehead against Matt's for a few moments.

All in all, Foggy almost forgot that he was basically hover straddling Matt - he didn't want to hurt him or have certain...bare parts touching. Oddly enough, straddling Matt was something Foggy only dreamed of, you know, in his actual dreams, at night. Besides, what kind of person hasn't had that one recurring dream about themselves and their best friend in explicitly compromising situations?

There was potentially the worst slash that started at Matt's left collar bone and went all the way down to his nipple. He had to get out the tweezers from his first aid kit and individually remove each small, embedded rock. It was tedious work but it needed to be done. It'd definitely be the first one he'd stitch up after.

Foggy's white cloth now looked like a horror movie prop by the time he could confidently move on from his chest.

Those design magazines that Foggy definitely does not read were wrong. White linens were neither practical nor fashionable. They clashed with his whole 'broke, in debt, dirty, New Yorker' decor going on. Except it wasn't really decor, it was more of an inescapable lifestyle.

Foggy hobble out of Matt's personal space only to kick off the most invasive part yet. There was really only one way to say it and that was to just say it. "Are you able you lift your butt for me? I can slide off the rest of your costume for you."

"Yeah, I can."

"Good. 3...2...-" Please be wearing underwear. Please be wearing underwear. Oh, thank God. One naked man was more than enough and two would be just hard to explain. He tosses the suit in the corner.

Foggy politely averts his eyes from straying too low, even though he knows he would be able to get away with a quick glance. He didn't necessarily want to see anything, it was just the thrill of curiosity that tempted him. Was he still wearing that brand of laughably expensive underwear that was strictly made on the third Tuesday of every fourth month in some remote desert in Egypt by a seamstress that had bore a Gemini child under a full moon or some other entitled bull along those lines. Foggy had to admit that they had been ridiculously soft, just not 'I-could-have-paid-for-three-months-tuition-instead' soft.

Foggy examines Matt's outstretched legs. They're mostly unscathed cut wise, but there were a few nasty looking bruises that could probably benefit from some ice. He'd have to go make some though, buying pre-frozen water was not a luxury he often divulged in.

"You're doing great buddy," Foggy says out loud to no one in particular as he wrestles with a stubborn splotch of dried blood. "I'm almost done here and then we can move onto stitching you back up."

Matt nods. His bottom lip was caught between his teeth in an anxious manner. It wasn't about the stitches, Foggy easily deduces, he'd had enough of them that they were just to be expected as part of his daily routine. No, it had to be something else.

Matt was leaning slightly forward. His arms were stretched, fists clenching and unclenching on the floor, reaching, needing, clinging for something that was just out of reach.

Oh. Oh.

Foggy knew what was happening, he'd seen it play out hundreds of times. Matt was fighting the age-old war on himself. It was a twisted, self destructive reality of his, where he wouldn't permit himself what he deserves or sometimes, what he desperately needs.

He was fighting hard against the compulsion to touch Foggy, to feel his best friends heart thrum rhythmically under his sensitive fingertips.

Matt had already admitted it once. Admitting it a second time would make it a weakness and Matt doesn't have weaknesses.

Foggy tosses the bloody cloth in the sink and sighs. "My hearts not getting any closer you know."

There was a flush of pink across the bridge of Matt's nose. He shouldn't be surprised that Foggy knew him so well. Matt lifts up his hand blindly for Foggy to place on his chest, but instead Foggy takes his two fingers and curls them around his left wrist, directly on top of his pulse point where the beat was the strongest.

Foggy lets go of him and Matt's grip tightens instinctively around his wrist. "Hey, hey. It's okay, I'm not going anywhere. I'm just grabbing some supplies. Hold on for as long as you need too, just know that I'll be needing both hands in just a moment." Matt doesn't answer; If he didn't he'd be acknowledging his own fault.

Foggy pulls the first aid kit closer. He digs around for the sterile needle he knew he saw earlier that evening, a pair of surgical scissors and wire thread. He'd tried using the regular suture thread on Matt before but he'd always end up snapping the thread and reopening the wound with the amount of physical excursion and strain he'd put on it.

He somehow unravels a generous amount of wire and snips it with only a single hand. The next part wouldn't be so easy. "I need to thread the needle now, okay?" There was still no verbal answer but Matt does reluctantly relieve his grip. "Thank you."

Foggy turns to the kit and right beside the needle were a pair of latex-free gloves. He'd been such a mess when Matt came in that the thought never crossed his mind. He grabs the gloves and slips them on. Better late than never.

He rips open the individually packaged needle and pulls it out. It takes him a few frustrated attempts to get the wire threaded and even more attempts to knot the end. It was no wonder he became a lawyer, he was never very good with his hands.

"I've got everything ready. I'm going to start off with the gash on your chest. My hands will touch you first and then I'll tell you before I start, okay?"

"Okay," Matt whispers. He was no doubt mentally scolding himself for his lack of emotional control.

Foggy's fingers gently brush over Matt's shoulders, across his collar bone and up to his cheek. "Stop punishing yourself." He cradles his chin. "I mean it." If Matt could see his face right now his words might have had more impact. He does a stern face anyway.

"You're too good to me, Fogs."

"You won't be saying that in a bit. I'm going to start now."

Matt takes a deep breath and Foggy presses the point of the needle to Matt's skin. Without much pressure, the needle pierces cleanly through the skin. He points the needle in and upwards. Foggy flinches at the sight of the skin stretching and creating a raised peak before it gives way and the metal breaks through yet again. He pulls the wire taught.

He really hated giving stitches.

It doesn't take long for him to tie off the word and snip the end. One done, several million left.

For the next half, an hour Foggy's life consists of nothing more than tie, pull, tie, snip, repeat. It was an action he never expected or wished to become monotonous but it had.

Foggy slips off his gloves and throws them towards the trash can. He misses. "Alright, you're finally done. I'm just going to go get you some clothes okay? I won't be long and I promise to come back and help you into my bed. And before you protest, the couch is not an option for you."

Foggy kisses the top of Matt's head and notices that his ears had stopped bleeding. That had to be a good sign.

He exits the bathroom and is immediately hit with the combined chill of the night and his lack of clothing. Foggy scurries to his room and begins digging deep in his drawers for his old, worn Columbia sweatshirt. Well, technically it used to be Matt's but let's not inform the blind guy that his best friend mooched his sweatshirt all those years ago.

Foggy also picks out a pair of sweatpants that had sadly shrunken the first time he threw them a wash. It was a shame really, they were like two clouds were gently hugging your legs.

With that set-aside, Foggy finally dresses himself in an array of items picked up off the floor and heads back to Matt.

Foggy squats down. "I've got some clothes here. If you prefer I can give you some privacy." He sets the folded clothing on the floor and guides Matt's hand overtop of them.

"Privacy is usually given during the removal of clothes. Besides, I might...uh, need some...assistance..." Matt averts his head from the general direction of Foggy.

Foggy chooses not to comment on his request and instead, jumps straight to the assisting. "I'm going to need you to lift up your arms, slowly. We don't want you agitating the stitches." Matt obliges and Foggy carefully slips his arms threw the sleeves and over his head. Matt un-subtlety pulls the collar back over his nose and inhales deeply. His eyes flutter closed and he does it again, only longer. The sweatshirt no doubt smelt like Foggy. Whatever it is Foggy smelt like; probably something along the lines of burnt coffee, stale bagels and maybe sweat because really, who was he kidding?

"Good, we're almost there. Just lift your butt when I tell you too." Foggy picks up the pants. He bunches up the fabric of the legs so it was easier to slide on. "3, 2, 1, lift!" Matt thrusts his pelvis upwards, face scrunching up in discomfort as Foggy expertly pulls the waistband up and over. The elastic snaps back into place low on Matt's hips.

"Let's get you to bed." Foggy stands, pulling Matt up with him. Matt sways and Foggy steadies him with the first thing that comes to mind, a hug. It surprises Matt, of course it did, he wasn't used to not knowing everyone's next move before they themselves did.

Neither knew they needed the hug as much as they did. They stood there for who knows how long, clutching to each other with desperation. Matt's head was curved delicately into his neck -Foggy doesn't mention how his ear is pressed against his carotid artery- his nails scratching Foggy's back as he tightens his grip on his t-shirt.

They didn't know the exact moment it started but as Foggy pulled away in, his exhausting finally setting in, they were both crying. Foggy breaths out, he probably looked like an utter mess. "You good?"

Matt quickly wipes away his tears. He pulls his trademark I-have-no-emotions expressionless expression. "Yeah."

"Look at me, I'm even too tired to argue with that statement." Foggy forces a laugh. He rights Matt so he was facing the door and wraps his arm around his waist. "We've got about three steps till we're out of the bathroom-" they take the steps. "-now, there's about...six? steps forward..turn left here...yes...four steps...turn right-" Foggy continues navigating them till they were standing at the foot of Foggy's bed. He leaves Matt for a moment so he could pull the bedsheets back.

"Well, we're here. I'm sure you know how to tuck yourself in. I'll just be on the couch so if you need anything so don't be afraid to shout my name. Preferably in rapid succession and in ecstasy; maybe that'll finally get Mrs. Martinez off my back about settling down with a nice lady. For multiple reasons. Ya know, because you're obviously a man, and she'd think we're having sex, most likely making the assumption that we're in a serious relationship because people still don't sleep willy-nilly these days." Foggy didn't really know what he was saying anymore, he was rambling. All those sleepless nights spent working were beginning to catch up to him, and quickly.

"Foggy." Matt cuts him off before he had time to start back up. When he gets Foggy's full attention he has to hold back his smile. "Will do."

Foggy was not expecting that answer. "Oh. Um. Okay then." He scratches the back of his neck. "I'm gonna go..."

"Foggy!" Matt yelp his name, much louder than before. He seems genuinely surprised about his outburst.

"Yes?"

"Don't go." He whispers as if the words physically hurt to say. Knowing him they probably did.

"I'm not going anywhere...I'm just in the other room."

"Stay here. With me. Please."

Foggy silently agrees as he crawls into his bed beside Matt. It wasn't the first time, they'd shared a bed before on several occasions but that was way back in college. Somehow it felt different now, more intimate.

Matt reaches for him under the warmth of the covers and Foggy lets him.

Matt entangles his limbs with Foggy's.

Matt kisses him gently on the mouth.

Foggy lets him.

•••

Matt woke up in the morning in significantly better shape. After a quick self-examination, his stitches were still unharmed, nothing looked infected and most importantly, his hearing had slowly, but surely begun to return, he still couldn't hear Foggy's heartbeat but he could maneuver himself with ease around Foggy's apartment. (It wasn't much since he practically had the place permanently etched into his mind but it was progress, okay?)

Despite his body's fierce protest, Foggy had gotten up early - even earlier than on work days, Matt was a proud early riser - enough to make breakfast for the both of them. The only thing he had the ingredients for - and in his skill range - were pancakes.

Matt drawls into the kitchen, all sleepy-eyed with his bed head that really just looked like sex-hair and Foggy almost swoons with a full plate of hot pancakes.

He wants to properly lecture Matt, to get angry and lay into him about his carelessness and all-around stupidity but his mind would only offer up the memory of Matt kissing him. He wonders what would've transpired if he hadn't passed out from exhaustion right then and there.

Foggy doesn't have to wonder long. He'd go as far as Matt went, he'd do anything Matt wanted. But right now, Foggy wanted to kiss Matt so he does.

Foggy sets the glass plate down on the counter with a clang and probably a little too much gusto. Matt jumps and Foggy smiles. This was happening. He never expected things to turn out this way, but they had and he'd roll with it, see where it takes him.

He takes Matt's head in his hands and crashes his lips to his best friend's. He hadn't kissed anyone in a while but he was positive that those kisses didn't feel like this. There was a nervous energy deep in Foggy's abdomen, it was something he'd only felt once before when they quit Landman & Zack.

Matt's lips were chapped and hot from the pillow but they felt so good under Foggy's.

Foggy doesn't go further than the press of lips in fear his brain might implode and his heart short-circuit. "I made pancakes." He says as his hands drop from Matt's hair -they had made their way there at some point.

"Yum." Matt tenderly licks his lips.

Neither of them brought up the sudden influx of kissing and that was okay. It didn't need to be discussed quite yet.

•••

Later, after they both had filled up on their share of cake from a pan, Matt suddenly stills in his chair.

"Matt?" Foggy has his hands on the table, ready to get up at a moments notice.

"I climbed through your window last night. I couldn't find you anywhere, the bathroom was the last place I looked." Matt explains deep in thought. He had a dazed, far off look. Well, even more then usual. "I came in and collapsed. I heard water move as you called my name. You immediately came to my aid."

"Uh-huh..." Foggy was confused. Where was this going? Was he just going to recount the whole night in some weird trance? He knew this stuff, he was there after all.

"You were having a bath." Matt deduces. His attention snaps to Foggy with such intensity he almost fell off his chair. "You didn't have time to get dressed. You were naked. Oh my gosh, You were naked the whole time, Foggy!" He was in hysterics by now.

"Small detail." Foggy waves his hand nonchalantly but really he was eyeing the last remaining pancake and questioning if he was really that full.

He eats the pancake anyway.

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