(A/N: Sorry this next update took so long. I kinda got stuck. Still not really happy with this part but I'm sick of looking at it so here ya go XD)
Foggy calls Matt's phone as soon as he gets down to the first floor of their building. The light is so dim and grimy in this hallway that he's pretty sure he would have trouble seeing anything with his good eyes; as it is, he has to feel his way to the door to make it out into the brighter lights of Hell's Kitchen just after dusk. Cars with their headlights on flash by, disorienting him a little, and he leans back against the wall, the back of his shoulder grinding into the edge of the Nelson and Murdock sign, and listens to the tone of Matt's phone ringing. Two, three, four rings, and then Matt's flat lifeless voicemail. He closes his eyes and knocks his head back against the brick. There's a migraine starting to build behind his right eye, which is failing slightly faster than the left one; the doctor had warned him that migraines were a possibility as he passed into the later stages of the disease, but he'd been lucky so far.
Guess my luck ran out, he thinks grimly. He hangs up without leaving Matt a message and stays there, against the wall with his eyes shut, phone hanging loosely in his fingers. Cocking his head slightly to one side, he tries to tune himself to his city, tries to pick out individual cars and footsteps and the scent of his favourite bakery across the street. He thinks he catches a whiff of something like Marci's favourite perfume, but when he opens his eyes, there's no one anywhere near him. He sighs, runs one hand down his face, and the sounds and smells of Hell's Kitchen blur back together, indistinguishable and noisy and overpowering as they have always been for him. I can't do this, he thinks for the second time of the night, and his throat tightens again. His heart is heavy in his chest, beating so loud and fast that Matt can probably hear it from his apartment fifteen blocks away. He tries, uselessly, to calm himself, to reassure himself that Matt isn't going to shed him like dead skin when he finds out, but before he can steady himself out, his phone rings and startles him nearly out of his shoes. Matt's ringtone.
He answers with his eyes closed on the first try. (Getting better at this, he thinks) "Hey."
"Hey, sorry, I was in the shower when you called," Matt's voice says, cheerfully enough. Foggy takes a deep silent breath, trying again to calm his heart so Matt won't hear it fluttering. He wishes for the millionth time that he could tell whether or not Matt is lying. But he can't, so he straightens his back, leans away from their sign. Brightens his voice.
"It's okay. Are you, uh. Doing your thing tonight?"
There's a long beat before Matt answers, and god, Foggy hates that they still can't talk about Daredevil without their recent fight rising immediately to the surface of Things They Can't Say.
"Yes," Matt answers. Stiff, awkward.
Foggy sighs and rubs his forehead. The migraine is starting to really throb, and he knows it's only going to get worse as the night progresses. "Do you think you could stand to take a break tonight? We could hang out at Josie's or something."
"Foggy, you know I can't," Matt says patiently, but with a little bit of an edge to his voice, like a teacher explaining something to a child for the hundredth time. Anger surges in Foggy's chest at the note of condescension in Matt's tone; for a terrifying second he hates Matt. "Not with that child trafficking ring meeting tonight," Matt continues. "Raincheck on Josie's?" And damn him, he sounds so tentative and hopeful that all of Foggy's anger drains instantly. He drops his head, eyes closed against the insistent pounding in his temple, and nods.
"Yeah, okay," he answers, and hopes beyond hope that Matt doesn't hear how rough his voice sounds. He hangs up before Matt has a chance to respond.
He doesn't expect a call back, and doesn't get one.
Fill: Foggy is going blind, 4/?
Foggy calls Matt's phone as soon as he gets down to the first floor of their building. The light is so dim and grimy in this hallway that he's pretty sure he would have trouble seeing anything with his good eyes; as it is, he has to feel his way to the door to make it out into the brighter lights of Hell's Kitchen just after dusk. Cars with their headlights on flash by, disorienting him a little, and he leans back against the wall, the back of his shoulder grinding into the edge of the Nelson and Murdock sign, and listens to the tone of Matt's phone ringing. Two, three, four rings, and then Matt's flat lifeless voicemail. He closes his eyes and knocks his head back against the brick. There's a migraine starting to build behind his right eye, which is failing slightly faster than the left one; the doctor had warned him that migraines were a possibility as he passed into the later stages of the disease, but he'd been lucky so far.
Guess my luck ran out, he thinks grimly. He hangs up without leaving Matt a message and stays there, against the wall with his eyes shut, phone hanging loosely in his fingers. Cocking his head slightly to one side, he tries to tune himself to his city, tries to pick out individual cars and footsteps and the scent of his favourite bakery across the street. He thinks he catches a whiff of something like Marci's favourite perfume, but when he opens his eyes, there's no one anywhere near him. He sighs, runs one hand down his face, and the sounds and smells of Hell's Kitchen blur back together, indistinguishable and noisy and overpowering as they have always been for him. I can't do this, he thinks for the second time of the night, and his throat tightens again. His heart is heavy in his chest, beating so loud and fast that Matt can probably hear it from his apartment fifteen blocks away. He tries, uselessly, to calm himself, to reassure himself that Matt isn't going to shed him like dead skin when he finds out, but before he can steady himself out, his phone rings and startles him nearly out of his shoes. Matt's ringtone.
He answers with his eyes closed on the first try. (Getting better at this, he thinks) "Hey."
"Hey, sorry, I was in the shower when you called," Matt's voice says, cheerfully enough. Foggy takes a deep silent breath, trying again to calm his heart so Matt won't hear it fluttering. He wishes for the millionth time that he could tell whether or not Matt is lying. But he can't, so he straightens his back, leans away from their sign. Brightens his voice.
"It's okay. Are you, uh. Doing your thing tonight?"
There's a long beat before Matt answers, and god, Foggy hates that they still can't talk about Daredevil without their recent fight rising immediately to the surface of Things They Can't Say.
"Yes," Matt answers. Stiff, awkward.
Foggy sighs and rubs his forehead. The migraine is starting to really throb, and he knows it's only going to get worse as the night progresses. "Do you think you could stand to take a break tonight? We could hang out at Josie's or something."
"Foggy, you know I can't," Matt says patiently, but with a little bit of an edge to his voice, like a teacher explaining something to a child for the hundredth time. Anger surges in Foggy's chest at the note of condescension in Matt's tone; for a terrifying second he hates Matt. "Not with that child trafficking ring meeting tonight," Matt continues. "Raincheck on Josie's?" And damn him, he sounds so tentative and hopeful that all of Foggy's anger drains instantly. He drops his head, eyes closed against the insistent pounding in his temple, and nods.
"Yeah, okay," he answers, and hopes beyond hope that Matt doesn't hear how rough his voice sounds. He hangs up before Matt has a chance to respond.
He doesn't expect a call back, and doesn't get one.