Foggy looked at Matt, his eyes wide with incredulity - though at this point, he wasn't sure why. This always happened.
Someone attractive came along and found Foggy halfway interesting, and then Matt would come back with their drinks, and it would all be over from there.
He'd stopped getting mad about it, for the most part, but it still stung.
The worst part of it was that Matt didn't even do it on purpose. At least, Foggy was pretty sure he didn't. Matt was just naturally charming, and unfairly handsome, to boot.
He tried to be a good wingman. He talked Foggy up, brought him into the conversation, did all of the things a wingman was supposed to do, but all that his "help" wound up accomplishing was making himself look even better to whoever Foggy was interested in this time.
The only time Foggy actually got laid was when he went drinking on his own, or when he went over to Marci's. She'd never been awed by Murdock the way every other person with a pulse seemed to be. It was one of the reasons Foggy had tried to have an actual relationship with her, instead of one or two nights of drunken fun followed by a hell of a hangover and fuzzy memories. He was getting too old for that kind of thing, honestly, and he just wanted to find something real, but that clearly wasn't going to happen like this, with Matt at his side.
Which sucked, because Foggy loved Matt, when he wasn't unintentionally cock-blocking him.
(And even when he was, but that was a different issue entirely.)
Thankfully for Foggy's sanity, Matt declined the woman's number.
When Foggy asked him why, as they were walking home together (Part of the way, anyway. They lived practically on opposite sides of Hell's Kitchen, because there was no way Foggy could afford an apartment in the area where Matt lived, and technically, Matt couldn't either. So there was something to be said for being blind, apparently, and it had nothing to do with gaining seriously enhanced senses to compensate.), Foggy asked him why he didn't take her number - or just take her home, like she'd been angling for him to do.
Matt hesitated. Then he licked his lips and said, "She's already in a committed relationship." He tilted his head and amended, "Or she's supposed to be. It can't be that committed if she's out looking for a one-night-stand."
"What, really? How do you-" Foggy paused, because he already knew the answer. "Oh. So, what gave her away?"
"The cologne, aftershave, and men's deoderant mixed with her own. It could be from a male relative, but - do you really want me to explain further?"
"No," Foggy told him, because hello there, anger, it's been a while.
Matt turned toward him and cocked his head. "You're upset."
"No, I'm-" That would be pointless. Why did he even try. "Okay, yeah. I'm pissed as hell. But it doesn't matter. Moving forward, remember?"
Swallowing, Matt pointed out, "You never did hit me, you know."
"Yeah, I know. I think I'd remember taking a swing at you."
"You could. I'm not half-dead anymore. I haven't actually gotten seriously hurt in a few weeks. You could hit me, and I wouldn't stop you."
Foggy stared at his idiot of a best friend and shook his head. "No. Seriously, why do you think that would help? I'm still angry, yeah, but I got past wanting to hit you about five seconds after I left the apartment that night."
"Why?" Matt asked, as though he genuinely didn't understand. Perhaps he didn't. His dad was a boxer, the person he'd been closest to before Foggy had taught him how to get knocked down and then get right back up; maybe getting beat to hell was just something he accepted as normal, but it wasn't normal to Foggy. Foggy took care of people, he didn't take them down. That wasn't his style. He could, but he didn't. If he really needed to teach someone a lesson, he verbally eviscerated them and then moved on with his life. And it took a lot for him to get to that point. The only time he ever lifted a hand to another person was when someone else might get hurt. Otherwise, he just let things roll off his back. It was how he'd dealt with bullies in public school, and how he'd dealt with the yuppies at Columbia, and it had worked pretty well for him so far.
"Because violence doesn't actually solve anything, and because you're my best friend. Friends don't punch each other, even if one of them is asking for it."
Matt opened his mouth and then closed it again, at a loss.
Rolling his eyes, Foggy reached out and draped his arm across his ridiculous best friend's shoulders. His frustration had already begun to dissipate, as it inevitably did. He just wasn't the kind of guy who stayed mad.
Especially not at Matt, no matter how dumb he could be sometimes.
"Come on. There's a box of cold pizza in my fridge, and it's got our names on it."
"I thought I was going home?"
"Nope. We're going to stay up late and gossip like teenage girls at a slumber party, because you said we could try to move forward, and this is what moving forward looks like."
"What are we going to gossip about?" Matt asked. "We see each other every day. You know pretty much everything that I know, and visa versa."
"Don't question it," Foggy advised. "Just walk."
He'd figure out how to deal with Matt's martyr complex tomorrow afternoon, when tonight's hangover wore off. It was a good thing tomorrow was Saturday.
And maybe (just maybe) it was a good thing his best friend had a bad habit of stealing Foggy's thunder.
Mini Fill : Gen, Foggy & Matt (It's mostly gen, I swear.)
Someone attractive came along and found Foggy halfway interesting, and then Matt would come back with their drinks, and it would all be over from there.
He'd stopped getting mad about it, for the most part, but it still stung.
The worst part of it was that Matt didn't even do it on purpose. At least, Foggy was pretty sure he didn't. Matt was just naturally charming, and unfairly handsome, to boot.
He tried to be a good wingman. He talked Foggy up, brought him into the conversation, did all of the things a wingman was supposed to do, but all that his "help" wound up accomplishing was making himself look even better to whoever Foggy was interested in this time.
The only time Foggy actually got laid was when he went drinking on his own, or when he went over to Marci's. She'd never been awed by Murdock the way every other person with a pulse seemed to be. It was one of the reasons Foggy had tried to have an actual relationship with her, instead of one or two nights of drunken fun followed by a hell of a hangover and fuzzy memories. He was getting too old for that kind of thing, honestly, and he just wanted to find something real, but that clearly wasn't going to happen like this, with Matt at his side.
Which sucked, because Foggy loved Matt, when he wasn't unintentionally cock-blocking him.
(And even when he was, but that was a different issue entirely.)
Thankfully for Foggy's sanity, Matt declined the woman's number.
When Foggy asked him why, as they were walking home together (Part of the way, anyway. They lived practically on opposite sides of Hell's Kitchen, because there was no way Foggy could afford an apartment in the area where Matt lived, and technically, Matt couldn't either. So there was something to be said for being blind, apparently, and it had nothing to do with gaining seriously enhanced senses to compensate.), Foggy asked him why he didn't take her number - or just take her home, like she'd been angling for him to do.
Matt hesitated. Then he licked his lips and said, "She's already in a committed relationship." He tilted his head and amended, "Or she's supposed to be. It can't be that committed if she's out looking for a one-night-stand."
"What, really? How do you-" Foggy paused, because he already knew the answer. "Oh. So, what gave her away?"
"The cologne, aftershave, and men's deoderant mixed with her own. It could be from a male relative, but - do you really want me to explain further?"
"No," Foggy told him, because hello there, anger, it's been a while.
Matt turned toward him and cocked his head. "You're upset."
"No, I'm-" That would be pointless. Why did he even try. "Okay, yeah. I'm pissed as hell. But it doesn't matter. Moving forward, remember?"
Swallowing, Matt pointed out, "You never did hit me, you know."
"Yeah, I know. I think I'd remember taking a swing at you."
"You could. I'm not half-dead anymore. I haven't actually gotten seriously hurt in a few weeks. You could hit me, and I wouldn't stop you."
Foggy stared at his idiot of a best friend and shook his head. "No. Seriously, why do you think that would help? I'm still angry, yeah, but I got past wanting to hit you about five seconds after I left the apartment that night."
"Why?" Matt asked, as though he genuinely didn't understand. Perhaps he didn't. His dad was a boxer, the person he'd been closest to before Foggy had taught him how to get knocked down and then get right back up; maybe getting beat to hell was just something he accepted as normal, but it wasn't normal to Foggy. Foggy took care of people, he didn't take them down. That wasn't his style. He could, but he didn't. If he really needed to teach someone a lesson, he verbally eviscerated them and then moved on with his life. And it took a lot for him to get to that point. The only time he ever lifted a hand to another person was when someone else might get hurt. Otherwise, he just let things roll off his back. It was how he'd dealt with bullies in public school, and how he'd dealt with the yuppies at Columbia, and it had worked pretty well for him so far.
"Because violence doesn't actually solve anything, and because you're my best friend. Friends don't punch each other, even if one of them is asking for it."
Matt opened his mouth and then closed it again, at a loss.
Rolling his eyes, Foggy reached out and draped his arm across his ridiculous best friend's shoulders. His frustration had already begun to dissipate, as it inevitably did. He just wasn't the kind of guy who stayed mad.
Especially not at Matt, no matter how dumb he could be sometimes.
"Come on. There's a box of cold pizza in my fridge, and it's got our names on it."
"I thought I was going home?"
"Nope. We're going to stay up late and gossip like teenage girls at a slumber party, because you said we could try to move forward, and this is what moving forward looks like."
"What are we going to gossip about?" Matt asked. "We see each other every day. You know pretty much everything that I know, and visa versa."
"Don't question it," Foggy advised. "Just walk."
He'd figure out how to deal with Matt's martyr complex tomorrow afternoon, when tonight's hangover wore off. It was a good thing tomorrow was Saturday.
And maybe (just maybe) it was a good thing his best friend had a bad habit of stealing Foggy's thunder.