Archive of Our Own ^beta

The first thing Matt notices about Foggy Nelson is that he is a sniveling, spineless excuse for an attorney who cares more about money than morals.

The second thing Matt notices about Foggy Nelson is that he smells like hot coffee, sweet with vanilla and cream.

The coffee part doesn’t matter. Matt shakes his head sharply to try and dislodge the scent from his nose. The coffee’s not important. The important part is the sniveling, spineless excuse for an attorney bit.

Matt hears Nelson talking in a low tone with his client as they leave the courthouse.

“I’ll tell the boss.” The nasal tone of the client is aggravating—drug dealer, petty and dumb, couldn’t take a moment of pain without ratting out every name he could think of. “You’ll get a great bonus for this. Honestly, I could get away with murder—“

“Don’t say that.” Nelson cuts him off, and he sounds surprisingly upset. No stomach for the harder crimes, Matt thinks to himself, scathing. “Just… don’t. And tell ‘the boss’,” and he says the title sarcastically, “that I don’t need any more money. I don’t want any more.”

“What, you too good for us, Nelson?” The dealer asks—Matt doesn’t remember his name, does it really matter?—and he sounds angry. Matt knows he broke the man’s arm, but he’s got two arms and also a mean swing. Nelson shows absolutely no sign of alarm or fear at the danger. Either stupid or daring, neither a good trait in his line of business.

“A cockroach would be too good for you, Mr. Stein.” Nelson tells his client dryly. “But unfortunately they tend to smart enough not to practice law.”

Funny, Matt thinks to himself vaguely. He hadn’t thought Nelson would be funny. His client is dumb as a brick and about as witty—he’d expected the lawyer to be the same.

The client shuffles off on his way after a few vague threats mixed with expressions of reluctant gratitude.

As soon as the roar of the car’s engine—fancy, gas-guzzler, showing off—fades away, Matt hears Nelson sigh. It’s a shaky, weary thing.

Nelson has no right to be weary, Matt thinks viciously. Nelson didn’t track this man down over days of searching, get information from him that might save lives, risk his own life to put the man behind bars.

Oh, no. Nelson just talked quick and slick and undid weeks of Matt’s work. It took less than a day. Less than a day, and a criminal was back on the streets with less than a slap on the wrist.

“I think Ben and Jerry’s is needed here.” Nelson sighs, and Matt hates him a little.

Foggy Nelson screws over the entire justice system, and then he gets ice cream.

Matt may say one or two words he’ll probably have to go to confession for when he finds out that Nelson’s been hired to represent Cisco Martinez. The guy’s a snake, one of Mahoney’s goons. He robbed three different supermarkets in one night, stole the money from the tip jars for God’s sake. He was caught on camera. There were eyewitnesses.

Nelson gets him acquitted before lunch.

Afterwards, Martinez offers to buy him a celebratory drink. Nelson gives a cordial no that sounds rather forced, and points out that it’s really too early to be drinking. The man laughs and offers a rain check. Nelson gives an ambiguous answer, and Matt is sure he’s never going to accept.

Nelson is an extreme hypocrite, it appears. The people he represents are good enough to sacrifice all semblance of morality for, but not good enough to break bread with. He refuses three more clients, two of which Matt took down himself, before Matt starts to see the pattern.

Nelson takes a client. Nelson uses underhanded methods and letter-of-the-law trickery to prove his client’s ‘innocence’. Nelson refuses any offers of extra money or attention. Nelson gives a world-weary sigh, and Matt hears his cheap polyester jacket rustle when he slumps his shoulders.

Nelson goes home and eats ice cream.

It’s like clockwork, and it’s baffling. It’s also maddening, because Nelson leaves the courthouse or office where he’s surrounded by people, gets in a cab, and goes home to an apartment that has thin walls and lots of neighbors. Nelson never goes out for drinks or dinner, and although he talks on the phone and texts, he never goes out with friends. There’s never any chance to get him alone and offer some hearty advice to stay the hell away from Matt’s work, possibly with a side of bruising.

He needs to get Nelson alone.

“Are you okay?” A hesitant voice asks. “I mean, you look kind of lost.”

“Why, because I’m blind?” Matt snaps. It’s reflex—it gets people off his back like a charm, no extra effort needed. People are already uncomfortable around his blindness, and being aggressively confronted about it tends to send them running.

It takes him a moment to realize the hesitant voice is Nelson.

“Uh, no.” Nelson says slowly. “More because you’ve been glaring into space for the last ten minutes and not moving.”

“Ah.” Matt says, turning towards Nelson.

“Yeah, ah.” Nelson agrees, sounding a little amused. “So, if you need directions or something…”

This close, the sweet coffee smell is more detectable, almost tangible. Nelson must have spilled some on his clothes, or maybe he just drinks it enough that it lingers. It’s sweet and strong and bright.

It’s incredibly distracting.

“No, no.” Matt assures him easily. “I’m sorry to have worried you. I was just thinking.” It’s not a lie.

Nelson laughs.

“I feel bad for whoever you were thinking about.” He tells Matt wryly. “You looked like you wanted to stab them.”

Well, not stab. Matt doesn’t really stab, as a rule. Too messy.

“They sort of have it coming.” Matt admits, smiling at the man who sort of has it coming. Nelson laughs again, soft and warm.

“Yikes. That’s ominous.” He teases, before hesitating. “So, do you need directions?”

Matt’s just about to say as politely as he can that Nelson should take his pity and goodwill as far away from Matt as he can before Matt decides to experiment with stabbing. Then a thought strikes him. His earlier thought, actually.

He needs to get Nelson alone.

“Actually,” he offers, adding just enough uncertainty. “I might actually need a guide. If… if you have the time.” He gives the shy little smile that tends to make people remarkably more willing to do what he wants, both women and men.

Nelson’s heart speeds up, right on time. Too easy.

“Uh, sure.” Nelson says, and his voice is a bit higher than it should be. He clears his throat. “I mean, yeah. I totally have the time. I actually just got off the clock, so I’m all yours for as long as you want me. Um.” Matt can practically hear the wince. His smile turns a little more real, because Nelson is digging his own grave here and it’s sort of entertaining.

“That might be for a while.” He says, pitching his voice just a little lower without being obvious about it, and—yes, there it is, heartbeat ratcheting up just a small bit more.

“Oh.” Nelson says, and his voice is too high again. “That’s… okay. Okay.”

“Okay?” Matt checks, teasing. This seems to relax Nelson, for some reason. His laugh is real, only a little shaky.

“Okay.” He agrees, and then Matt watches as he holds out his hand. “I’m Foggy, by the way. Foggy Nelson. Well, Franklin Nelson, actually, but. You know, Franklin. Ugh.”

The hand is an interesting gesture, because he must know Matt can’t see it—well, that Matt shouldn’t be able to see it. As it is, it glows fire-red in his mind, like a brand.

Like the Devil’s hand when he’s making a deal.

“Matt Murdock.” Matt tells him warmly, taking his hand. “I’m very happy to meet you, Foggy.”

Nelson’s not the only devil in Hell’s Kitchen.

Matt finds it’s rather hard to come up with a destination for Nelson to lead him to. Matt’s apartment is right out—he doesn’t want Nelson knowing where he lives. Nelson’s apartment has too many witnesses, and Matt doesn’t really know many restaurants and bars. He knows all the alleys and roads to get to them, but he has no idea what’s actually inside.

He mentions something vague about looking for a restaurant that 'has an Italian name—it has really good breadsticks’. Nelson, absurdly gullible, latches on to the bait in a moment.

“Oh, you must mean Mario’s!” Nelson exclaims, sounding delighted. “Yeah, their breadsticks are the best. Hey, have you had their tiramisu?” Matt pastes a sheepish smile on his face and shakes his head. “Oh, man. You have not lived.”

“Would you like to join me?” Matt asks amiably, adding just a little bit of a purr to his voice. “We could split it.”

And yeah, there’s the heartbeat. Honestly, Nelson’s got a hair trigger for arousal.

“Um, okay. Sounds good.” Nelson says, sounding incredibly nervous but also incredibly pleased.

“Good.” Matt agrees, and lets Nelson lead him. He doesn’t even pull away once, not at all.

Mario’s does smell delicious, Matt grudgingly admits when they step inside. He can smell garlic and tomato sauce and olive oil, and also a mouthwatering hint of baking bread—the breadsticks Nelson was talking about, it must be.

The waiter knows Nelson by name, which seems odd. Nelson’s never been to this restaurant the whole time Matt’s been watching him, and yet more than one person offers him a warm hello as he and Matt are seated. He must have gone here before, but he stopped for some reason. He eats ice cream alone instead.

“I helped the chef when he ran into some trouble.” Nelson explains when Matt gives an oh-so-innocent inquiry about the familiarity of the waiter. “He didn’t do anything wrong, but try telling that to anyone else involved in the case.”

Matt wonders if the chef is one of Nelson’s pet crooks, if Matt will have to check his food for poison when it comes.

“That was very noble of you, helping him. Are you a police officer?” Matt asks curiously, and Nelson laughs.

“Oh, no. I’m the bad guy, I’m afraid. Lawyer.” He adds when Matt makes an interested noise. Matt smiles at him with a little bit of bright recognition.

“Well, that is a coincidence. I’m a lawyer too. Defense or prosecution?”

“Defense.” Nelson tells him, wryly. “I don’t have the killer instinct a prosecutor needs.” Matt does not believe that, not for a second. Nelson digs his teeth into these cases and he doesn’t let go. He’s a bulldog. A rabid bulldog.

“Me too!” He says, adding a dash of surprised delight. Nelson echoes it, much more genuine.

“No way! I guess that explains what you were doing hanging out at the courthouse. I was sort of hoping you weren’t a criminal, although if you were you’d probably be the nicest one I ever met.” He remarks, laughing. Matt keeps smiling at him, deciding that any comment would be damning. Do you meet a lot of criminals? Not too fond of the crowd you’re running with? Are you counting yourself in that criminal category? “Hey, we should swap stories. What’s the weirdest case you’ve ever taken on?”

“You first.” Matt demurs. He wants to hear what Nelson says. He’s heard all kinds of strange cases that Nelson’s taken on, all sorts of brutal and bizarre crimes that Nelson makes disappear with a snap of his fingers. He wants to know which one Nelson chooses, how he’ll edit it for Matt’s ears.

“Okay, I have one. So, there’s this inner tube, and this guy walks by with a iPod…”

Matt’s never heard this one before. By the end of it, he’s laughing and he actually means it. Why has he never heard of this one before? It’s the oddest case he’s ever heard of, and the funniest. He’s done his research on Nelson, and nothing like it’s ever come up. But then, he hadn’t been searching for strange cases involving an inner tube and an iPod. He’d been searching for hard crime, vicious defenses.

Not this. He’d never even thought to search for this.

“And that’s why I can’t look at a banana peel without getting nightmares.” Nelson finishes grandly, and Matt’s got tears in his eyes he’s been laughing so hard.

“That’s awful.” He says through his laughter. “No one should be able to do that with a banana peel.” Nelson chuckles.

“I know, right?” He asks, voice hearty with mirth. “Okay, okay. Your turn.”

Matt realizes with a little lurch that he hadn’t thought this far ahead. Why didn’t he think of this? He thinks of everything. And yet he didn’t think of a story to tell, some lighthearted tale of legal escapades. Now that he thinks about it, he can’t think of a single one. His cases for his little, tidy firm are nothing to write home about, and he can’t exactly detail his nocturnal adventures into the world of criminal justice.

He’ll have to lie. He can do that. He’s good at lying.

“No, I like listening to your voice.” He says, and that’s not what he was planning to say. Why did he say that? Well, it doesn't matter. He rolls with it. “Tell me another one.”

Nelson hesitates.

“I don’t want to bore you. I mean, I can go on and on if you let me.” Matt smiles at him.

“I don’t mind at all. I’d like it.” He promises, and Nelson gives a little snort of amusement at this, like he can’t quite imagine why anyone would like it. Matt’s not lying about this part though. Nelson’s a good storyteller, filling in the words with flurries of motion. He must know Matt can’t see them, but he does them anyway, doesn’t try to make himself different and smaller to cater to Matt’s blindness. His movements show up as flickers of light at the corners of Matt’s senses, bright and quick like butterflies made of fire.

If he’s going to be wasting time waiting for Nelson to start walking home, hopefully right down a convenient alley, he might as well have a good time.

“Okay. Just tell me to shut up if you get bored.” Nelson warns, and then he starts again.

It’s the most Matt’s laughed in a long time.

They’ve gotten through dinner, Matt enjoying a truly sumptuous plate of rigatoni marinara and a glass of ice water. Nelson had offered wine, but Matt wanted to keep his head clear for the night ahead. The waiter takes their plates away and Matt is just opening his mouth to ask for the check when—

“One tiramisu, please, and two spoons. Oh, could we get some extra chocolate shavings on top? They’re amazing.”

The waiter laughs kindly.

“So you’ve said.” He says fondly. “Yeah, Mario will probably use a whole bar just for you.”

The waiter sounds like he likes Nelson very much. It’s a little jarring, because he’s not the only one tonight to talk to Nelson like that, with such affection in their voice. Matt had never noticed Nelson going out, but he must have, before Matt noticed him. And it seems that he made an impression.

And sure, Nelson’s very funny, but he’s not that great.

“Oh, you don’t have to.” He argues, and Nelson scoffs.

“No way. We came for the tiramisu. You’ll love it—oh, you like coffee, right?”

“Yes.” Matt agrees, and it’s strange how loudly and quickly he answers. He hadn’t thought he liked coffee that much, but his body seems to have other ideas. “Yes, I love coffee.”

The tiramisu is so good Matt almost weeps when it’s gone. It’s only after he’s swallowed the last bite, savoring it for as long as he can on his tongue, that he realizes exactly what Nelson smells like. Creamy and sweet tiramisu, not just coffee after all. Something richer.

“You want more?” Nelson asks him, voice a little odd, and Matt shakes his head hastily.

“No. I think any more might kill me.”

Matt can’t actually think of a good excuse to follow Nelson home. No, that’s not true—he can think of several very valid reasons that Nelson might let Matt follow him home, very enthusiastically. He can think of them, but he can’t quite bring himself to speak.

So he gives Nelson his number instead, asks if he can call him later. He puts just enough suggestiveness in his words, and Nelson stutters like a girl being asked to prom and enters the number on his phone. He smiles and gives Nelson just a little brush of a hug, enough to let him feel the firmness of Matt’s frame but not enough to enjoy it. He lets Nelson climb into the back of a cab and promises to grab the next one.

As soon as the Matt hears the cab turn a corner, he’s scrambling up the fire escape and chasing after it across the rooftops.

He’s followed Nelson to his apartment building before, but he’s never gone farther than that. Once he realized it would be next to impossible to conduct a fruitful interrogation there, he’d pretty much dismissed it from his mind.

This time, Matt doesn’t dismiss it. He stays out of sight, but close enough to the street that he can hear when the cab pulls up and Nelson climbs out. The cab driver is giving him a heartfelt goodnight—Nelson must have tipped him very well, or else somehow he's charmed all the cab drivers in Hell's Kitchen in addition to all the chefs and waiters. Nelson returns farewell warmly and Matt watches as he meanders up the path towards the building. He’s swaying a little even though he’s not drunk, a bit like he’s dancing. A merry flame dancing in the breeze.

He’s humming. He sounds… happy.

He hears an older woman, one of Nelson’s neighbors, chuckle knowingly at him as he nears the doors.

“Nice night?” She asks pointedly. Nelson doesn’t bristle, or tell her to mind her own business, or avoid the question.

“I, Mrs. Carver, have had a wonderful night. The best night. A perfect night.” Matt hears the wet smack of Nelson kissing her on the cheek in hello and then hears the fond giggle of Mrs. Carver.

“Is she a nice girl?” She asks slyly, and Matt waits for Nelson to lie or backpedal, but instead he says clear and easy,

“He is a very nice guy.” Mrs. Carver doesn’t even hesitate.

“Well, he’d have to be if you picked him.” She teases, and then adds a little more softly, “It’s nice to see you smile.” Nelson sighs, and it’s both wistful and warm.

“It’s nice to have a reason too.” He returns quietly.

Matt leaves. He doesn’t want to hear any more. He still tastes the tiramisu on the tip of his tongue.

Matt stays away for a few days, partly because he doesn’t want to seem eager and partly because he’s not sure he wants to visit Nelson again. Nelson made him laugh, made him forget his plan for a moment. He had the perfect opportunity to turn Nelson down the alley, maybe pretend he wanted to kiss him, and Nelson would have gone along like a lamb. Matt could have pressed Nelson's buttons way he knows how, the way Matt does with everyone, and it always works (sweet and bashful and people see what they want to see). Matt could have gotten all the information he needed, all in one night.

He could have lied about his name, for God’s sake. He wasn’t going to see Nelson ever again after he got what he wanted. He could have lied, should have lied, but ‘Matt Murdock’ had just come out and he couldn’t take it back. He could have lied.

He could have, but instead Nelson made him forget his mission. That’s dangerous.

He’ll do better this time.

“Hey.” Nelson greets him when he picks up, and he sounds so absolutely thrilled to hear from Matt that it’s startling for a second. “You have perfect timing—I just got out of court.”

Matt knows this. He’s watching Nelson leave the courtroom right now, bright fire against the dark world.

“How very lucky.” He intones lightly. “If you’re free, I wasn’t sure if maybe you’d like to grab dinner again?”

“Absolutely.” Nelson agrees, and he only sounds a little too eager. “Do you have a place in mind? Oh, should I pick you up?”

Matt had researched restaurants and city hot spots just for this moment, just so he could say casually,

“I though we might try Le Sucre, if you’d like.” It’s a pastry shop café combo, and Matt is well aware that Nelson has a severe sweet tooth. He’ll love it, Matt’s sure of it. “I could meet you there? It might be faster.”

“Faster is good.” Nelson agrees, arm flickering red-orange as he waves a taxi down. “I’ll see you in about a half-hour, okay?”

“Sounds perfect.” Matt mutters, giving a quick goodbye. He turns and hurries off the way he came. He wants to get there just a few minutes after Nelson does, make him wait a little, get him a bit nervous and a bit eager. Matt’s the predator, not the prey.

Matt gets there ten minutes early and paces.

“Hey, that was quick! Do you live around here?” Nelson asks when he joins Matt at the door. Matt gives him a vague smile.

“Oh, I suppose. I’ve never really thought about it.” Actually, he lives less than five minutes from here, but Nelson doesn’t need to know that.

“Cool. Oh, wow. They have coffee macaroons!”

Matt follows after him, amused and not bothering to hide it.

“You have a thing about coffee, don’t you?” He asks, and he hears Nelson give a happy little laugh.

“I have a thing about coffee.” He agrees. “Do you want any?”

“Why not?” Matt asks rhetorically. He can think of about a million reasons why not, but he doesn’t share any of them.

This is what he wants, isn’t it? He might not be able to menace Nelson into giving him the information, at least not without running into the same pitfalls of before and with the added complication of Nelson knowing his face and name (stupid, stupid, why didn’t he lie?).

He can’t use force, but he can do this. He hears Nelson’s voice crack sometimes when Matt makes a joke or leans a little too much into him. He hears Nelson swallow when Matt makes a small slurping sound while sipping at his tea, heavy with milk so that it looks white and thick to Nelson, making it gather a bit at the corners of his mouth.

He hears Nelson’s heartbeat, the way it flutters like a hummingbird around him. So fast, so light.

“So, busy day?” He asks, dabbing at his mouth when Nelson tells him in a strangled voice about the milky dampness there.

“Excruciatingly so.” Nelson agrees dryly, but there’s a note of genuine weariness there. “You’re a defense attorney—do you ever just want to punch your client? Really, really hard?”

“It’s been known to happen.” Matt agrees mildly. In fact, he actually did punch Nelson’s client before his arrest, several times. He might get a chance to punch him again soon, since Nelson got him acquitted, how the hell does he do that?

“I don’t know, I can’t really see you punching anyone. You seem too nice.” Nelson says doubtfully, and Matt laughs.

“Not as nice as you’d think.” He says honestly, and he hears Nelson nod slowly, the tips of his hair—long, for a professional man’s, but clean and sweet-smelling—brushing across his shoulders and making just the smallest sound.

“Yeah, maybe not. I just remembered the poor bastard that you were thinking of when we met. You never told me who that was.” Matt laughs, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly.

“You know what? I’m not even sure I remember.” Nelson chuckles.

“That’s actually even scarier. You should never feel that level of hate for someone you won’t even remember later. You save that stuff for the people who you can hate forever. Hate’s a lifelong commitment, my friend.”

Can Matt hate Nelson forever? He would have said so, yes, before he sat down and talked to him. Nelson was a toad to him then, a storybook villain ruining all of Matt’s efforts for the sake of good. But now…

Nelson likes coffee. It’s more detail than Matt ever wanted to know about him, and now he can’t pretend that Nelson’s just another 2-D goon. He’s the coffee guy, the funny guy, the guy whose breath catches when he sees Matt waiting at the door.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Matt agrees calmly. He will, since he can’t stop keeping it in mind no matter how hard he tries. “So, what did this client do, that you wanted to punch him so badly?”

And he’s shocked, really. Stunned. Nelson doesn’t even hesitate to hash out all the little nitty-gritty details of the case. Matt supposes it’s not confidential—the case is public, and resolved. Still, it involves a man of middling standing in the criminal underworld who cares a great deal about his reputation. Doesn’t Nelson know it’s dangerous to discuss things like this? Doesn’t he know that this man could hurt him for talking, make sure he doesn’t talk again?

“Are you supposed to be telling me this?” Matt asks, which is monumentally stupid because what does it matter if Nelson’s supposed to be telling him this? Matt needs to know and Nelson’s offering. It’s not Matt’s problem if the guy wants to talk himself right into the mob’s bad graces.

It’s not.

“Please, Matt.” Nelson snorts. “It’s all over the news, and you know what I do. Pretty much everyone in the legal circles does—I’m kind of infamous. Besides, I’d rather you hear it from me.”

“Does it bother you, that people judge you when they’ve never met you?” Matt asks quietly. He wants to know. He really does, even if it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t.

Foggy laughs, a little bitterly.

“If people are going to hate you for no reason, you might as well give them one.” He offers insouciantly, and when Matt doesn’t answer, he sighs. “Yeah, it bugs me. It used to bug me more, when I was starting out. I’m… I’m sort of used to it now.”

Why do you give them a reason? Matt wants to ask. Why do this, when it’s so obvious you don’t want to? Do you want to? I can’t tell—you’re a good liar. You must be, to do what you do.

“You shouldn’t be.” Matt tells him quietly. He’s not even sure if it’s a falsehood. The thing is, Nelson’s given him a reason—a huge one. And no matter what Matt learns about him, that reason’s always going to be there. It’s been there since the beginning, and it will never go away. “Used to it, I mean. It’s not fair.” Not to you and not to them.

“Yeah. I’m used to it, but I’m not quite used to being used to it.” Nelson admits, and he sounds sad. He clears his throat. “But, hey, this is depressing. Come on, happier topics. Chocolate or vanilla?”

“Strawberry.” Matt answers, just to be contrary, and Nelson laughs.

He lets Nelson change the subject. It’s not as much detail as he’d like, but it’s a start. If Nelson’s already telling him this much after a single evening together, he’ll be singing like a bird in no time. Matt won’t have to lift a finger, except to crook it.

Nelson will come running.

Nelson tells Matt about every case he’s on for the next two months. It’s so incredibly easy—Matt doesn’t even have to ask. Nelson just keeps handing over the information, tying it up nice and pretty with a bow. It’s like he doesn’t even realize that Matt could use this information against him, and certain parties might not be pleased at all to find out who’s spilling all their secrets.

Matt wonders if Nelson’s the only one who knows these secrets. He wonders if, when Matt acts, they’ll know it was Nelson. He wonders what they’ll do to Nelson, if they find out.

He doesn’t let himself wonder about it much.

Matt takes Nelson out whenever he can, almost every day. After all, Nelson’s giving away all of this free knowledge. Matt should take advantage of it while it lasts, right? He needs to keep Nelson in a happy, sharing sort of mood. So he takes Nelson to dinner, to lunch, sometimes to breakfast. Nelson shows up to breakfast still smelling like the fabric softener he uses on his sheets, body bright and warm from bed to Matt’s senses. Matt’s tired when Nelson’s like this, which is the only reason his lips part a little and his breath catches for a moment—it’s a yawn, that’s all.

It’s easy, it’s simple. It’s not anything more than gathering information and charming Nelson. Matt’s in control.

About a month after the breakfast, Nelson messes it up. He offers to take Matt to the aquarium instead of to dinner. Matt laughs and says there’s not much point when he can’t see the fish. Nelson points out softly that it’s quieter than the zoo, so it will be easier on Matt’s ears. He says that he’ll tell Matt what all the fish look like. He says that he wants to show Matt the tide pools, where you can reach out and touch the sandpaper skin of the stingrays.

He’s thought about it, Matt realizes with horror. Nelson’s sat down, or maybe he’s lain in his bed, and he’s thought about where he wants to take Matt in order to make Matt happy. What he wants to do for Matt, to make Matt happy.

It’s too much. It’s too thoughtful. Nelson shouldn’t be thinking about this, at least not with his head. Sure, Matt wants Nelson to like him, he wants Nelson to really like him, enough that it makes him stupid and eager to talk. He wants Nelson to like him, but he doesn’t want to like Nelson.

“Yes.” Matt breathes before he can stop himself. “I really want to.”

They go to the aquarium. It smells like fish, which isn’t the most pleasant thing in the world, but the smell’s clean and mild. He can hear the bubbles of air in the water, little burbling sounds like bells.

He can feel the stingray skin, and it is like sandpaper, but nothing like the sandpaper Matt feels when he tries to sleep on cotton instead of silk. It doesn’t hurt—it’s just new. Nelson buys Matt a stupid, dorky plush octopus and wraps the tentacles around Matt’s head like scarves, giggling the whole time. He checks all the stuffed animals before he decides on the octopus, and Matt realizes with a sick little lurch that he’s testing to see which material is the softest. Because he knows, knows that Matt’s got problems with texture, with the world being too rough.

Nelson buys him ice cream, and it’s blueberry and cold and Nelson tells him with great amusement that it’s shaped like a shark.

“Your teeth are so blue right now.” Nelson tells him happily. “Oh, wait, stick out your tongue.” Matt does. “Oh, wow. I’m pretty sure that much food coloring cannot be legal.”

“You gonna sue?” Matt asks, only noticing he’s still got his tongue stuck out when his words come out garbled. He immediately shuts his mouth, keeps it shut for a moment before continuing. “Fight for my honor?”

“You couldn’t afford me, Murdock.” Nelson tells him dryly. “I come with a hefty price tag.”

“What on earth do you even do with that money? Use it to buy me shark popsicles?” Matt says it as lightly as he can, but he wants to know. He needs to know.

What do you do with the money? The money they give you to lie for them?

“Hey, that is a ritzy popsicle, my friend. It cost me two whole dollars.” Nelson returns easily, and there he goes again. Nelson never gives him a straight answer when Matt asks about the benefits of his position. He talks about the cases, he talks about himself, and he never, ever talks about the places where the two meet.

“You’re a cheapskate.” Matt teases. Later. He’ll ask again later.

“I am a savvy consumer.” Nelson argues good-naturedly. “Ooh, a savvy consumer who sees an absolutely awful shirt that he needs right now. It glows in the dark, Matt. It has glitter, and it glows in the dark.”

“Heaven help us.” Matt mutters when Nelson drags him off towards this apparently amazing shirt. He remains tolerantly amused until Nelson buys him one too, telling Matt that ‘it’s a blended material, see? It should feel okay, and you can machine wash it without it shrinking’. He just piles it on top of the octopus, and Matt’s tongue is blue, and the shirt does feel soft, Nelson checked because he checks if things are soft before he gives them to Matt and… and…

“Thank you.” Matt says quietly, taking the shirt. He doesn’t mean for his fingers to brush against Nelson’s, but they do, and he doesn’t pull away as quickly as he should. “Thank you. Foggy.”

Foggy takes his hand and leads Matt somewhere else. Matt lets him.

Matt wears the shirt. He wears it that night, after he’s crawled into bed and is trying to fall asleep. Foggy’s right, the blend of the material feels good on his skin, and he can’t see if it glows in the dark but Foggy assured him it does. He trusts Foggy.

He’s not sure if it smells like Foggy. It shouldn’t, Foggy only touched it for a second, but Matt pulls it on and even though he just washed it, he swears he smells coffee.

It shouldn’t smell like Foggy, or like coffee, but it does. It does, and when Matt wakes up he’s hard and aching, the shirt pulled up, bunched in his hands and pressed against his face. His lips are brushing against the soft fabric, the phantom taste of coffee in his mouth.

Matt pulls off the shirt, throws it in the wash, and puts in the scented soap that he only uses when he’s desperate and running low. He sits next to the dryer until it’s done, and then he pulls it out and he buries his nose in it and it smells cloying, like lilacs and lavender.

And coffee. That stupid coffee.

He runs it through the wash again, without the scented soap, and then he pulls it on again and climbs back into bed. He wakes up again hours later, and he’s so hard it hurts, and he still smells coffee.

He throws the shirt and that stupid soft octopus out the window. He shuts and locks the latch, and he goes to make breakfast.

He lasts about two minutes before he’s climbing out the window after the shirt and that stupid soft octopus.

Eventually, Foggy meets Matt in the mask.

It’s inevitable, really, given the crowd Foggy runs with. He doesn’t let himself get sucked into it, not too deep, but he still talks to criminals and spends a great deal of time with them, and Matt’s having a lovely little chat with a man who likes to sell guns to kids when he hears—oh, god, no.

He hears the drumming of Foggy’s heart, and it’s getting closer. Too fast, too close.

“Help!” The gunman cries, and it’s pathetic how pathetic he sounds. “Help me!”

Anyone else, Matt thinks bitterly. Anyone else in the world with a shred of self-preservation would be running the other way, but it’s Foggy so he starts running towards it.

Matt’s dropping the man to the ground and climbing as fast as he can and it’s still not fast enough.

“Hey, you! Get down here, or I’ll come up there!” Foggy shouts, and no self-preservation skills, none, how is he even alive?

Foggy may be stupid when it comes to his own safety, but Matt’s pretty damn sure Foggy’s not quite as conveniently stupid when it comes to Matt. If he hears Matt’s voice, it might take maybe him a minute to place it, probably less.

So Matt just cocks his head and crouches down on the roof, just a little taunting. He wants to see what Foggy will do. He’s not in danger, but Foggy doesn’t know that.

“Help.” The man on the ground whimpers piteously. “I think he might have broken my arm.”

“Yeah, probably.” Foggy tells him bluntly. “But a broken arm probably won’t kill you, so please shut up while the grown-ups are talking.”

Matt wants to laugh, but Foggy would probably figure it out even faster then.

He settles for smiling, and even that’s dangerous. Foggy probably knows his smiles better than anyone else in the world.

“Don’t you smirk at me, you masked menace. Seriously, down. Now.” Foggy orders, and Matt stands, shrugs in an exaggerated manner, and flees. “Son of a—I cannot believe this.“ He hears Foggy swearing when Matt ducks out of sight, and then, “Oh, stop whining.” Foggy snaps at the man on the ground. “They’ll slap a Band-Aid on you and you’ll be home for dinner.”

Dinner. Matt wonders if Foggy wants to grab dinner.

Maybe Matt can hear about Foggy’s adventures with the ‘masked menace’.

“Total asshole.” Foggy tells him earnestly between bites of spaghetti. “He just—the smirk, he did this stupid, smug little smirk and it was just—ugh, I don’t even know. Asshole.” He mutters again, and Matt hears the sound of metal hitting china—stabbing a meatball, hard, more than once.

“It sounds like love at first sight.” Matt teases, taking a sip of his lemon water. When Foggy makes a startled sound, Matt adds, “You haven’t stopped talking about him all night.”

“Oh, wow, you’re right. How weird.” Foggy says slowly, voice a little strange. “So, your turn. How has your night been, Matt?”

“Pretty quiet.” Matt offers neutrally. “Boring. I never said you had to stop talking about him, you know. It’s more exciting than my night was, certainly.”

“Somehow I doubt that.” Foggy tells him brightly. “Besides, it’s just us tonight. Masked dude—gone, out of sight, out of mind, out of conversation. I want to hear about you.” He tilts his head—Matt can hear his hair brushing against his shirt collar with a slight swish. “Come on, tell me about your boring night. I’m on the edge of my seat here.”

Matt laughs and makes something up. It’s not a whole lie, not really. He did take a walk, and he did stop to talk to an interesting man for a few minutes. The details are a little muddled, but it’s not a lie. Not quite.

“Wow, that is boring.” Foggy teases him when he’s done, and Matt laughs.

“See? I told you. Now, come on. I want to hear more about this masked man.”

It’s strange urge, almost voyeuristic. He wants to sit here and listen to Foggy talk about Matt—no, about the other Matt. He wants to hear the way Foggy’s voice gets low and fierce when he talks about the masked man, hear the banked emotion in his tone. He wants to hear Foggy struggle for the right words, not able to find any that can quite match the size of his feelings.

“I don’t know. There’s not much else to tell. I only saw him for a minute or two.” Foggy hedges. Matt gets a terrible, terrible idea.

“So, what did he look like?”

And oh, there it is, beautiful—Foggy’s heartbeat racing, the little swallow he does when he gets nervous, just a little hitch in his breathing, a little shift in his stance. It’s magic, like a song that Matt knows all the words to.

It takes him a moment to realize that it’s the first time Matt’s heard it all night. Not when Foggy hugged him hello, not when their shoulders brushed as they made their way into the booth, not when Matt leaned in to talk about the menu.

Just now. For Matt, but not for Matt.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Foggy starts vaguely. “I mean, you know. Average. Average height, average weight—although, you know, a not-so-average figure. Sort of, I don’t know. He was wearing this outfit that was tight as sin, and he did this kind of stretch, a yoga pose, and it sort of highlighted… um. You know. Stuff.” He sounds a little breathless, heart pounding.

“Oh?” Matt says, and he wonders if Foggy hears the irritation in his voice. “That’s nice. Cute then, was he?” He’s not sure why he’s doing this to himself. Foggy basically already said that he was undressing Other Matt with his eyes. Does he really need to have him spell it out like this?

“A…okay, you cannot tell anyone about this, but… yeah, a little. I mean, again, only saw him for a minute, but… yeah. Kind of my type. Kind of exactly my type.” Foggy admits sheepishly.

And that means Matt’s his type. He already knew that, that was the point of this—in the beginning. Not now, never now. Foggy was attracted to him, and Matt used that, he did, because he wanted something. And he got it, and now he’s got this too, and it’s wonderful, but…

But Foggy’s heartbeat had been steady, all night, right up until this moment. This moment, when Foggy thinks he’s talking about someone else, a stranger who he met only for a moment. Not Matt—at least, not this Matt. Other Matt.

Matt doesn’t make Foggy’s heart race anymore.

Matt’s chasing down a purse-snatcher when he hears Foggy’s heartbeat.

Not again, Matt begs. He doesn’t want Foggy to be in danger. He doesn’t want Foggy being around people who are dangerous. He doesn’t want Foggy to be hurt.

He doesn’t want Foggy to see Other Matt again.

Foggy’s heart is steady, so he’s not in danger. As Matt gets closer though (he can’t help himself, should be getting as far away as he can now that he knows Foggy’s okay), other things come into focus. There’s the smell of weak broth, and people who don’t get to bathe as often as they should. Smoke, and poor water pressure that sticks in the pipes. Lots of noise, lots of people talking at once.

Soup kitchen. Foggy’s at a soup kitchen.

And Matt should leave then, because Foggy’s not in danger and he’s off doing charity, for god’s sake. There is nothing to police or protect about this. But Matt doesn’t leave, and a few minutes later Foggy’s leaving amongst a flurry of cheerful, fond goodbyes. Foggy begins walking down the street.

Matt follows.

He is a little surprised when Foggy walks into a place that smells like cheap soap, old wood, antiseptic and sugary cereal—an orphanage, and Matt knows that particular bouquet far too well. He’s even more surprised when Foggy walks out maybe an hour later, and walks a few blocks away to a charity house, and then to a church, and Matt is sensing a pattern here.

He listens closer, listens as the soft susurrus of paper in Foggy’s pocket gets quieter with each stop. The sound, the smell of oil and sweat and ink on paper, means one thing: money. Cold, hard cash. And the more Foggy walks, the more money he loses.

Cold, hard cash. Not quite blood money, but close.

What do you do with the money? The money they give you to lie for them?

Foggy gives it away.

Matt can never get Foggy to admit that he doesn’t keep the money. Whenever he tries to broach the topic, Foggy deflects, mentions something about rolling in the dough and not wanting to make Matt jealous.

Do you even have enough money to live on? Matt wants to ask. You give too much away, I know you do. You give too much time. You give too much everything. You spend it all on your cases, on your charity, on me. You can’t keep doing this or there’ll be nothing left of you.

Like Matt has any right to preach on the subject.

And Matt’s got enough money. His moonlighting doesn’t exactly pay well, but his quiet little cases in his quiet little firm get him quiet little money, and he wants to spend every cent on Foggy. Well, food is important too, but food with Foggy is even better.

Bit by bit, Matt gets few pieces of the puzzle. Foggy didn’t plan on getting into his current line of business. ‘There was this girl…’ Foggy begins, and isn’t that always the way? There was this girl who got in trouble, and Foggy wanted to help. Of course, it turned out that the girl was trouble, but by that time Foggy had won the case and also the interest of the girl’s mobster father.

“And the thing is, it’s all legal.” Foggy tells him quietly. “I hate that the most. I’m good at my job—damn good. So I look at these things, these people come to me and I know if they don’t have me, they’ll go to someone else and it won’t be legal. People will get hurt. And I want there to be a chance, just a chance that they won’t…” He cuts himself off, making a frustrated sound. “But there’s so many ambiguities, escapes. The law’s got more loopholes than a noose, and you’ll hang yourself with it twice as fast.” He laughs, bitter. "I keep playing devil's advocate, Matt. And I keep winning."

“Foggy…” Matt says quietly, but finds he has no idea what to say. He’d never thought Foggy would actually answer his question—‘How did you get started in law?’. Such a trite thing, Matt hadn’t even really thought about it when he asked. He’d expected one of Foggy’s ambiguities, a ‘well, it seemed like a good idea at the time’ or ‘you know, stuff’.

He didn’t expect this. Not this.

“Okay, question over.” Foggy says abruptly, and Matt knows he’s lost his chance to ask for more. He’ll wait, ask again later. Keep asking until he understands. “Hmm, okay, my turn.” Foggy hums. They’ve taken turns asking questions, a ritual during their meals. Foggy can’t seem to stop asking questions, and Matt can’t seem to stop stealing Foggy’s secrets. Loopholes and nooses. “Alright. What’s your favorite book?”

“Doctor Faustus.” Matt replies quickly, relieved. Sometimes Foggy’s questions cut too deep, just like Matt’s do—'what’s the last thing you remember about your father, why did you want to become a defense attorney instead of a prosecutor, what’s the last color you saw'? This one’s easy, doesn’t make the words stick in Matt’s throat.

To his surprise, Foggy giggles.

“What?” Matt asks, confused.

“Nothing, nothing.”  Foggy says, and there’s a grin in his voice. “I just—somehow I knew you were going to pick something like that. Very serious, a bit of religion and a dash of the fantastic. Just a little taste of the devil. It seems very… you.”

“Oh.” Matt blinks. “Is that a good thing?” Foggy laughs.

“Absolutely. Very good thing.” He sounds incredibly fond as he says it, more fond than anyone should be after spending only a few—oh, god, it’s been months. He’s been friends with Foggy for months. It’s the longest pseudo-functional relationship Matt’s ever had.

Matt clears his throat, tilts his head down even though it doesn’t matter, it’s not like Foggy can try to catch his eye.

“So, what’s yours?” He asks, trying to change the subject and make Foggy sound less… less tender. Foggy laughs. He laughs a lot, and it always seems like he means it, like it’s bubbling up and out of him because he’s too happy to keep it in.

“Oh, Scarlet Pimpernel.” Foggy says easily. “Definitely. I love a man of mystery. A hero, someone who wants to fight for what’s right. Plus, you know. Red’s my favorite color.”

“Is it?” Matt asks, voice a little high and he wants to kick himself. Then he wants to kick himself again when he realizes that Foggy doesn’t know, he’s not teasing, he’s not talking about Matt wearing red and fighting for what’s right.

He’s talking about Other Matt, the man in the mask who he met once, and why does Foggy care so much about a man he met once and who never said a word to him?

“Oh, yeah.” Foggy assures him, voice low—with what, the single memory he has of that dumb red mask? “Big into red. I had no idea how into red I was.”

Foggy keeps talking about this. It’s Matt’s fault. He kept poking at it like a kid at a loose tooth, a little sore but just so fascinating, you can’t stay away. He kept asking, and he kept reassuring Foggy that it was all so interesting, tell me more, how does that make you feel? And Foggy had been hesitant at first, but now?

Now he’s into red, and he tells Matt so at every opportunity.

“Seen him again, have you?” Matt asks, because he’s really quite masochistic when it comes down to it. Foggy sighs.

“No. No secret rendezvous with stupidly attractive vigilantes in the moonlight.” He bemoans, and makes a frustrated sound. “I don’t know why I’m so obsessed over this. I bet he doesn’t even remember me.”

Why would he? Matt thinks, and it's cruel and petty and he knows that. He only saw you for a second. I see you more than he ever did, every day, and I can almost see you too now, because I know every inch of you, inside and out.

“You’re very memorable.” Matt tells him instead. He can be kind, at least to people other than himself.

“You think?” Foggy’s voice perks up, and Matt wants to go slap—oh, Christ, he wants to go slap himself for not giving Foggy the attention he deserves, how does that even work? “Thanks, Matty.”

Matt finds himself giving a strange, exultant little shudder. Euphoria.

Matty. He doesn’t know why it means so much, but it does. It’s warm, so full of tenderness that it hurts in the best way. He still has Foggy, in the ways that matter. Foggy may sigh about Other Matt, but he doesn’t say his name with that little lilt on the end, higher and gentler than just a normal name, a plain and boring name. Foggy makes it special.

“Anytime.” Matt croaks.

 Matty.

Matt hears it, soft and sweet, and he wakes up covered in sweat and thrusting slowly into the bed beneath him. The empty bed, nothing there. Wearing the stupid shirt again, coffee and words mixing in his mind.

Matty. Come on, please. Harder. Faster. Please, Matty. More?

Matt sobs, pressing his forehead against the warm pillow, and he can’t quite stop himself from moving, there, again, just a little more. More, Matty. Please?

Is it wrong? He wonders. Foggy doesn’t know, doesn’t know that Matt’s thinking about him, under Matt and writhing and begging and god, Matt thrusts harder, reaches down and touches just enough to feel it, hot under his skin. Is it wrong, to think about Foggy when Foggy doesn’t know? Would Foggy be upset, would he be uncomfortable?

Or maybe he’d be happy. Maybe he’d love it. Maybe he would writhe and beg and push up against Matt just enough to make it fun, let Matt press him back down into the bed and hold him there. Maybe he’d spread himself wide, legs around Matt's waist pulling him closer, deeper. Everything there, just within Matt’s reach, his to touch, only his. Maybe his mouth would be slick with spit and not just his, Matt’s tongue all along his lips, his mouth, everywhere. Tracing lines down his body, licking and sucking and Foggy begging please, please, please.

It’s like a thunderstorm. Space between thunder and lightning, count the beats, storm approaching. You know it’s there, you’re just waiting for it to hit. He feels the pressure building, warm and heavy air, and then it’s there, flash of light and lightning and he comes so hard he think he might have screamed.

Matty.

Matt shudders and gets up to change the sheets.

The worst part is, Matt knows it’s not just lust. If it was just lust, he could deal with it.

If it was just lust, nothing else, Matt would deal with it. He remembers Foggy’s heart when they met, the way his skin bloomed warm with blush in Matt’s senses and his words faltered. And maybe Foggy feels that way around Other Matt now, but Matt could change that. He could say the right words, do the right things, and Foggy would come to him. He’d have to, right?

But it’s not just lust. Foggy likes him. Matt’s his best friend, he’s said so, said it every day for a long time. Matt’s his best friend, and if Foggy came to him and he didn’t like it, then what? What if Foggy didn’t feel like they could be the same after? What if their friendship shifted out of place and couldn’t be put right again? Matt needs Foggy to be his friend. He didn’t know how much he needed it until he had it.

There is also the inconvenient fact that while Foggy likes Matt, Matt loves Foggy.

This unfortunate realization was reached somewhere around the tenth night of the Matty Dreams, when Matt woke from one where their clothes weren’t even off. Foggy was just mouthing at his throat and whispering against his skin, and Matt had whispered it back, every word. Every ‘I love you’, and there had been no doubt in Matt’s mind, during the dream or after. It was just… it was.

So it’s not lust, it’s lust and pretty much everything else. Which works out great in movies, but not so much in real life. Foggy shows no signs of pining. He treats Matt exactly the way he always has, kind and warm and friendly, and yeah, he pretty clearly adores Matt, but not quite in the way Matt was hoping for.

Maybe if Matt put on that stupid, ugly red mask.

And he thinks sometimes, why not tell Foggy? Foggy adores Matt, and he lusts for the man in the mask. If he gets them both in the same package, he might learn to love that. But then Matt gets a little bruised in a fight and he has to cancel breakfast with Foggy to hide it, and he remembers. If Foggy was sleeping in Matt’s bed, he’d know every night when Matt wasn’t there and it would hurt him. This way, Matt can keep him safe. Matt won’t hurt him, and no one else will either. Foggy won’t have the answers, Foggy won’t know who Matt is, and people will see that, they’ll sense it. They won’t think to ask him, so Foggy won’t have to lie. 

So Matt doesn’t tell Foggy, not about any of it. He doesn’t tell Foggy, and so when he meets Foggy again while wearing the mask, he has no idea what to say. He can’t say anything, or Foggy will know. Foggy can’t know.

Foggy can’t know, so Matt just stands there, still as a statue, and he thinks to himself viciously that if he hadn’t been so busy thinking about Foggy, he might have been able to hear Foggy getting too close.

“Well, will you look at that? Fancy meeting you here.” Honestly, Matt has no idea how they did fancy to meet here. This is a dingy alley in southern Hell’s Kitchen—he hadn’t even thought Foggy knew this place existed, let alone how to find it. Maybe someone up there just really hates Matt.

Matt says nothing. He hears Foggy sigh, move a little further into the alley.

Heartbeat fast and strong, faster, faster. Interested, very interested. Aroused.

“You know, most people actually say hello at this point.” Foggy tells him, amused. He’s getting too close, and Matt takes a step away. It’s a sheer climb from here—it would be easier to go through the alleyway, but that would mean getting past Foggy. Matt’s not sure he could make it. “No, huh? Okay, I’ll say hello then. Hello.” 

Matt still says nothing. Foggy snorts.

“Well, you’re friendly.” He mutters. “You know, my friend warned me about you.”

Matt blinks at him. Is Foggy talking about…?

“He doesn’t actually say anything, but I can tell he really doesn’t like you. And he’s a smart guy, you know? If he doesn’t like you, he’s probably got a reason.” Foggy takes a step closer, feet echoing on the cracked pavement. “So I can’t help but wonder to myself, what sort of reason could he have? Any ideas?”

Matt hesitates, glancing towards the mouth of the alley again. Foggy’s edging closer, and Matt thinks he might be going for a tackle but Matt could probably dodge, and then he could run and get out before Foggy could catch him.

Matt shakes his head. No ideas.

“Yeah, I thought you might say that.” Foggy tells him wryly. “Actually, you kind of remind me of him a little.”

Oh, god.

“Body-wise, you see. I mean, you know you’re hot—it’s not a come-on, it’s a statement of fact. And my friend, he’s really… he’s beautiful, you know?” Foggy sighs wistfully.

Matt is really, really hoping Foggy’s talking about him. After all, who hates the masked man as much as Matt does?

On the other hand, does he really want Foggy chatting with strangers about Matt? He supposes Foggy doesn’t consider the masked man to be a stranger. He talks about him so much that he probably thinks they’re better friends than he and Matt are.

“You’re actually listening, aren’t you?” Foggy asks, incredulous. “Are you a therapist when you’re not a vigilante?” Matt shrugs. Safe answer, no specifics. “And it’s not like you’re going to tell anyone—what, you’ll say that you ran into a weird guy while you were skulking around the back alleys in bondage gear? Not happening.” Foggy takes a breath. “Okay, I’ll take it. I’d say pull up a chair, but all we have are suspicious boxes and I think you’d prefer to be standing in case you need to run. Right?”

That’s actually pretty astute. Maybe Foggy knows Other Matt better than Matt thought. He shrugs again.

“That's what I thought. So this friend, right? He’s absolutely gorgeous, but that’s not the first thing I noticed about him. You know what was?” Matt shakes his head. “I saw him standing there, and he looked so angry, and so sad.” Foggy swallows. “And I wanted to help, so I talked so him. And you know, he gave me this smile—god, I can’t even describe it—and that’s the second thing I noticed about him. That perfect smile.”

Matt remembers that smile. He feels sick thinking about it, because it wasn’t real. It was the one he’d given just to hear Foggy’s heartbeat speed up, because Matt thought it was funny. Thought it was funny, to make a man who Matt hated feel lust for him. A game.

“And he asked me to dinner, and he was so sweet, I almost couldn’t stand it. I thought I was going to have a heart attack the whole way to the restaurant. I just couldn’t think of what to say.” Matt remembers that too. He’d said things just to put Foggy off his guard, keep his heart racing. Still funny, but also part of a plan. Get Nelson alone. Make him talk. Hurt him, if necessary.

‘If necessary’. God.

“And when he talked, I don’t know, it just—every word. I loved every word. He was smart, and kind, and he wanted to listen to me and my silly stories. I hadn’t had that in a long time.”

Get him talking. Making him happy will make him weaker, more likely to give something away. 

God.

“I bought him tiramisu, that first night. I loved that tiramisu. It got me through law school, through my first serious breakup, through my first big case. I loved it, and it was mine, and the minute I met this guy? Bam, I needed to show him, needed to make it his too. And he looked so happy, and he got this smudge of chocolate right at the corner of his mouth—“ That had not been on purpose, possibly the only part of the night that Matt hadn’t carefully calculated. “And I wanted to lick it off, right there and then. It wasn’t even—I mean, yeah, it was a little bit of a lust thing, but not really. I wasn’t aiming for something bigger, I just really wanted to taste that little smudge of chocolate.”

Matt stays frozen. He’s not sure if he should be nodding or shaking his head or just running for it. Foggy’s still in front of him, close but still blocking the alley effectively. Smart, strategic. Terrifying.

“And here’s the thing. I never got to taste that chocolate.” Foggy tells him calmly. “I really want to taste that chocolate. I really want to kiss him, and see if I can still taste the chocolate right there at the corner of his mouth.”

“Ngh.” Matt says intelligently, forgetting that he’s not supposed to be talking.

“Yeah.” Foggy agrees, like Matt has made an intelligent point instead of a strangled sort of moan. “So, problem. This man, he’s a good guy. And I sort of… I’m not in trouble, you know, but someday I might be. My job’s dangerous, and I can’t, I can’t let him get hurt because of me. So, I need to ask a favor.”

Matt nods, no hesitation. He’ll do pretty much anything and everything that Foggy asks, in and out of the costume. Probably he should have paused and looked like he was thinking it over, but it’s too late.

“Great.” Foggy tells him, and oh, he’s close, he’s been getting closer the whole time he was talking about that damn chocolate and now Matt can feel the heat of his body and he’s so close.

Foggy pushes a small piece of metal and plastic into his hand—a flash drive.

“You like to help people, right?” Foggy asks quietly. “It’s a list of everyone I ever got acquitted, and everyone who asked for my help and who I refused. It’s a list of everyone I know who was connected to either group. There’s… there’s a lot. Not a huge amount of automatically admissible evidence, but then you don’t seem to be so big on the drudgery of due process. And there’s a lot to go on.” He swallows.

Matt feels the plastic burning through his glove. This is what he wanted, what he’s wanted since the beginning. And now it’s in his hand, literally within his grasp, and he wants to drop it and have Foggy instead.

This isn’t good. This isn’t safe. This isn’t doing his job.

“I need you to take it, and help people. You can give it to the police, to anyone you want.” Foggy sighs shakily. “Just… help people. Because I want to help my friend, and helping him means getting out while I still can.” Matt hears the soft sound of Foggy’s hand combing through his hair, something he does when he’s upset. He laughs, a little wet. Salt in the air. Tears.

Foggy reaches out and places a hand on his shoulder. Matt is too shocked—tears, tears, why is Foggy crying, what can Matt do to make him stop—to pull away.

He gasps when Foggy leans up to press a gentle kiss against Matt’s forehead, cupping his face in his hands.

“I really do love him.” Foggy whispers, and Matt can feel the warmth of his breath through his mask but it’s not enough. “Your move, Murdock.”

…What?

Foggy pulls away, and he’s moving towards the front of the alley before Matt can even think to follow him. He hears the soft scrape of shoes against concrete when Foggy turns to face him.

“So, just putting it out there, but I have not actually seen the apartment of this friend who I’m in love with. I think he might live in a box under a bridge, sort of like a moderately handsome troll.”

“Moderately handsome?” Matt chokes out, and he’s not sure why that’s the part he’s stuck on. Maybe because the first part’s too big, he needs to pick it apart in bits and pieces so that he won’t be crushed under it.

“Moderately.” Foggy reiterates solemnly. “So, wanna show me your box?”

“Is that a pick up line?” Matt asks, and he’s a little hysterical but only a little. He's moved without thinking, closing the distance between them and pressing close. Foggy laughs.

“Hey, I’d love to see what’s going on under your bridge, if you know what I mean.” He hesitates. “No, see, ick. That was creepy. Pick up lines are creepy. I’m just going to say that I would really, really like to go home with you. Please.” He brushes a hand over Matt’s fingers, still clenched over the flash drive so tightly it will leave marks on his skin. “We can do this part later, okay?”

Matt nods tightly.

“How did you know?” He asks hoarsely. “I didn’t… I never.” Foggy snorts.

“Seriously? I saw you for at least a minute, and you smirked. By that point, I’d already dreamed of you so much I could have recognized you with my eyes closed.” Which, oh. Yes, please.

“You never said anything.” Matt points out, and Foggy sighs and pokes his shoulder.

“Neither did you. Why do you think I talked about that mysterious masked man so much? Leading the witness, Mr. Murdock. And you completely failed to take a hint. As usual.”

“Oh.” Matt says, a little stunned by this turn of events. “But, when you talked about him—other-me—your heartbeat went crazy, so fast, so loud. I heard it. And you did that for me-me too, but only at first, never after. Why?”

There is a very long silence. Finally, Foggy says, low and deadly,

“What the hell do you mean, you can hear my heartbeat?”

“Ah.”

So he didn’t figure out that part yet. This is going to hurt.

Foggy squeezes his shoulder. Hard.

“Yeah.” He agrees mildly, a parody of their first meeting. He squeezes harder, and Matt winces. “Ah.”

Matt tells Foggy about what Foggy deems ‘the freaky heartbeat stalker thing’. He tells him about everything else, too.

Foggy gets very, very quiet towards the end. He’s sitting on Matt’s bed, and Matt’s pacing in front of it while trying to explain everything without making Foggy angry.

Finally, Foggy takes a deep breath.

“What’s my heart sound like right now?” Matt hesitates, because this seems like a very bad idea, but when Foggy makes an encouraging noise, he admits,

“Steady. Slow. Strong.”

“Yeah.” Foggy agrees. “You know what I’m thinking right now, Matt?” Matt shakes his head dumbly. “I am thinking that I would very much like to know what it feels like to kiss you when you’re wearing nothing but silk, and that I would very much like you to show me. Right now.”

“Yes.” Matt breathes, taking a step forward before he even thinks about it. Then he stops. “Wait, if you’re thinking about… about. Why is your heart…?” Foggy huffs out a short, exasperated laugh.

“Matt, I feel that way about you all the time. This is what my heartbeat sounds like when I want you. When it gets quicker, it’s because I think that maybe, finally, you’re going to do something about it.”

Foggy’s heartbeat gets quicker.

Matt does something about it.

And Foggy does pull Matt down on top of him, heavy and hard. He does writhe and arch, and the sound his bare skin makes against the silk of Matt’s sheets soars like a symphony. He does press up until Matt pushes him back down, and then he’s there, spread wide and open, gasping and trembling and wet. When Matt presses inside he sobs and buries his face in Matt’s shoulder and bites it to muffle his screams—but Matt can hear them, loud as fireworks. The sound of them mingles with the feeling of Foggy tight and hot around him, exploding in starbursts in the back of Matt’s mind, pure sensation. And every moment, every little movement of his hips makes it bloom new and vivid in Matt’s senses, a wine-dark bruise of love and lust and sweat and tears and slick skin and silk sheets and little gasping moans and—

And Foggy begs, oh how he begs, whispers low and sweet into Matt’s ear, bites the words along the skin of his throat, presses his prayers to Matt’s mouth until Matt can taste the words.

“Matty. Come on, please. Harder. Faster. Please, Matty. More?”

Matt wakes up in the morning, and he tastes hot coffee, sweet with vanilla and cream.