Chapter Text
“Hello, I’m Foggy. What’s your name?” Foggy asks. It is, admittedly, not necessarily the best opening line, but it’s certainly not the worse. The man jerks into wakefulness and immediately lunges to his feet, looking for all the world like a cornered alley cat.
“I’m—Matt,” the guy says. “I’m sorry about this. Please, I’ll just be—I’ll just go.” He bends down and starts groping for the backpack by his feet, and Foggy realizes that the sunglasses the man’s wearing might not just be a fashion statement. Amazing. Foggy forgets to lock his office door one time and a blind, homeless man crashes in it overnight. Not that Foggy’s got any valuable property here. Most of his furniture came to him courtesy of bulky item pickup day, and the rest was bought at a flea market. Still, it’s probably nicer than sleeping in the streets. It’s dry and relatively warm and probably quieter and safer to boot, and oh goddamnit.
“Sure thing,” Foggy’s mouth says for him as he steps aside so he won’t be blocking Matt’s path to the door. “You want some coffee first though?” Stupid fucking mouth. Marci was right, he is a disaster. Matt pauses in the act of shoving what looks like a sleeping bag back into what looks like one of those crappy drawstring backpacks people put their gym clothes in. He’s got bruising on his cheek and probably a black eye under the glasses. Looks like somebody kicked the shit out of him.
“Pardon?” the man says warily.
“You know, coffee. The black ichor that makes up this city’s lifeblood? I was just going to make a pot. Since I woke you up,” Foggy babbles. Since Foggy woke him up? This is Foggy’s office. “I don’t think I have any tea, but I can check. I probably should have some anyway for the day I get a teetotaler of a client. I wonder what kind I should get.” Foggy’s mouth needs to just. Stop.
Matt saves him from speaking any more. “Since you—yeah,” Matt says. “Coffee would be. Thanks.” He looks at least as bewildered as Foggy feels, so at least they match.
“Great,” Foggy says, sounding manic. “I’ll just—do that.” He spins on his heel and walks over to the coffee machine. His office doesn’t have a bathroom or sink so he grabs the pot and waves it awkwardly at Matt (the blind man who can’t see him doing it, great job Foggy). “Gonna go get some water from down the hall, then,” he says. He makes a beeline for the bathroom down the hall.
He half-expected Matt to be gone by the time he gets back, but instead Matt’s standing awkwardly by Foggy’s desk, his backpack slung onto one shoulder and the pack with his sleeping bag at his feet. He’s produced a cane from somewhere and is fiddling with it nervously. Matt smiles tentatively when he hears the door open. It’s—it’s kind of breaking Foggy’s heart in ways he doesn’t want to think about. Marci must never know of this day’s events.
“I’m surprised you didn’t call the cops,” Matt says. He sounds like he’s not sure if he’s making a joke or just trying to figure Foggy out. Foggy wishes him luck if it’s the latter. Foggy doesn’t even understand what he’s doing most days.
“I’m surprised you didn’t bolt,” Foggy says. Good job, mouth! Keep it up. Foggy can’t really boot up his brain-to-mouth filter without coffee. He’s about to start apologizing when Matt laughs, a sharp bark that sounds like it was surprised out of him.
“Well this isn’t how I expected to start my day,” Matt says. Me too, thinks Foggy. His heart does a little pitter-patter when he sees Matt’s smile; it’s that gorgeous. Great, now Foggy feels creepy. He really shouldn’t be checking out the blind, homeless stranger who apparently slept in his office last night.
“How strong do you like it?” Foggy asks, gesturing to the coffee pot. “Uh, I just waved at the coffee pot,” he adds. Matt smiles again, softer and surprised. Pitter patter goes Foggy’s heart. Shut up, heart. Just circulate blood and stop offering commentary.
“How strong can you make it?” he asks. Foggy chuckles.
“Depends on whether you care how it tastes,” Foggy tells him. “Despite being a partner in a prestigious law firm, I cheaped out and got the always-on-sale stuff.” Matt raises an eyebrow uncertainly.
“Law firm?” he asks.
“You, my friend, are standing in the palatial offices of Franklin Nelson, Attorney at Law.” Foggy sweeps an arm in front of him to encompass the one-and-a-half rooms he calls his office. “I just gestured grandly.”
Matt shakes his head, but he’s smiling faintly. “Yes, I’m very impressed,” he deadpans. “I may swoon.”
“Ha! See if I offer you creamer for your coffee,” Foggy says. “Oh, right, so how strong do you want it?”
Matt makes a face. “Strong as you take it, I guess,” he says.
“Then you take it on the edge of tar-like, excellent choice, sir,” Foggy tells him. He fiddles with the coffee machine. “There we go.”
“So you’re a lawyer with your own firm?” Matt asks. He’s still got his backpack on, but his posture is much more relaxed than it was before.
“Yes I am,” says Foggy. “I’m living the dream.” Well, a version of the dream. Sure, he was apparently sleep-deprived enough that he forgot to lock the office door, and he wasn’t entirely sure how he was going to pay rent on this place if he didn’t get another client soon, and the only time he really saw anyone outside of his job was when he was mooching food off his family, but still. Better than watching Marci burn away any vestige of humanity she had at Landman and Zack while wondering what transformation he was undergoing without even realizing it. He was sure about that much.
“Huh,” Matt says. “I was a law student once,” and he just stops. He looks shocked and more than a little rattled by what he’s just said, and Foggy can’t really say he blames him. Still, Foggy’s a cool cucumber.
“Really?” Foggy says, inviting without demanding more. That’s what he’s going for at least. Matt nods and swallows.
“Yeah,” he says. “I—Columbia, actually. Hard to believe, I know.” He gestures to himself and gives the world’s most shitty, self-deprecating smile. “It didn’t work out.”
“I went to Columbia, too,” Foggy says. He tries to keep his voice cheerful, and he’s pretty sure he succeeded. He’s not sure he believes Matt, but he’s also not sure how much that matters in the grand scheme of things. “We could’ve been classmates.”
“Hah, maybe,” Matt says quietly. There doesn’t seem to be much to say after that, but the coffee maker saves them from floundering too much by finishing the coffee.
“Coffee!” Foggy says. He grabs his mug and one of the spares he keeps for clients and pours them each a cup. “Do you want creamer stuff? No milk, but I also have plain sugar.”
“Just sugar, thanks,” Matt says. There’s an awkward moment where Foggy isn’t sure whether to doctor Matt’s coffee for him or pass it and the sugar bowl, but they make it through. They drink their coffee in a silence that’s not as awkward as it could have been, all things considered.
“Thanks,” Matt says after they’re done. “This was really—nice.” He looks supremely uncomfortable and Foggy would be a liar if he said he wasn’t feeling it himself.
“You’re welcome, man,” Foggy says lamely. “This was a surprisingly nice start to my day. I have plenty of coffee, so drop by any morning I’m here.” He means it, which is already not as weird as he thinks it should be.
“Ha, thanks,” Matt says. He shrugs into his backpack, swings the bag with his sleeping bag over his shoulder, and grabs his cane from where it was leaning against the desk. When he’s at the door, Foggy speaks again.
“I mean it,” Foggy says. Matt pauses, cocks his head like he can’t figure out what he’s hearing. Foggy sees Matt’s cheek curve when smiles.
“Thanks,” Matt says again. This time it sounds like he means it. “Have a good day, Foggy.”