A week later, Matt abruptly burst into Foggy’s office while Karen was at lunch. “Did you demon your way into my apartment the other night?”
Foggy blinked at him. “Uh. Maybe,” he said in the way that meant “Yes.”
“Oh. Okay.” Matt turned to leave.
“Wait, that’s it?” Foggy spluttered. “You’re not mad?”
“No, of course not. You’re always welcome over,” Matt replied. “It’d just been bothering me, since my door hadn’t smelled like you’d touched it to get in the normal way.”
“You’re creepy.”
“You’re a demon.”
“You have a point,” Foggy admitted.
//
Three days later, on the way back to the office after an off-site interview with a witness to a case, Foggy got to lay his first deliberate curse.
Matt was in stitches by the time they reached the office. It was even the good sort of stitches rather than the painful, stiff, and bloody variety that he was more used to.
Karen gave them the “You’re both mad” smile she’d perfected within the first six weeks of working for them. “What is it now?”
Foggy gave her a cold smile. “Someone said something mean to Matt. I got even.” He patted Matt on the back as he continued to choke on his giggles.
She knew he could have a temper; everyone did, after all, even if it was slow to burn. But the smile he gave her now was thin, and quick, and cold, and more like what she saw on Matt on a bad day than anything Foggy ever wore.
But Matt straightened, got a grip on himself, and gave Foggy a blindingly bright smile, and Karen’s unease slipped away. Whatever Foggy’d done couldn’t have been that bad if it made Matt so happy.
(Outside, four blocks away, the douchebag who’d snatched Matt’s cane away and told him to echolocate continued poorly parkouring around rubbish bins, fire hydrants, and parked cars, arms flapping like wings as he loudly declared himself Batman. He would find himself doing this anytime he was in the vicinity of a vision-impaired person for years to come.)
[Minifill] Snips and snails and puppydog tails continued
Foggy blinked at him. “Uh. Maybe,” he said in the way that meant “Yes.”
“Oh. Okay.” Matt turned to leave.
“Wait, that’s it?” Foggy spluttered. “You’re not mad?”
“No, of course not. You’re always welcome over,” Matt replied. “It’d just been bothering me, since my door hadn’t smelled like you’d touched it to get in the normal way.”
“You’re creepy.”
“You’re a demon.”
“You have a point,” Foggy admitted.
//
Three days later, on the way back to the office after an off-site interview with a witness to a case, Foggy got to lay his first deliberate curse.
Matt was in stitches by the time they reached the office. It was even the good sort of stitches rather than the painful, stiff, and bloody variety that he was more used to.
Karen gave them the “You’re both mad” smile she’d perfected within the first six weeks of working for them. “What is it now?”
Foggy gave her a cold smile. “Someone said something mean to Matt. I got even.” He patted Matt on the back as he continued to choke on his giggles.
She knew he could have a temper; everyone did, after all, even if it was slow to burn. But the smile he gave her now was thin, and quick, and cold, and more like what she saw on Matt on a bad day than anything Foggy ever wore.
But Matt straightened, got a grip on himself, and gave Foggy a blindingly bright smile, and Karen’s unease slipped away. Whatever Foggy’d done couldn’t have been that bad if it made Matt so happy.
(Outside, four blocks away, the douchebag who’d snatched Matt’s cane away and told him to echolocate continued poorly parkouring around rubbish bins, fire hydrants, and parked cars, arms flapping like wings as he loudly declared himself Batman. He would find himself doing this anytime he was in the vicinity of a vision-impaired person for years to come.)