daredevilkink | Prompt Post #5

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Prompt Post #5

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this should not eb a one time thing. Please continue this

(auth!anon)

Thank you!

I figure, when Matt's in DD mode, he's all laser focus and (metaphorically) eyes-on-the-prize; plus, it's the stuff he's specifically trained for. Life as Matt Murdock has to be comparative cacophony.

(auth!anon)

I have no idea whether fiber optic cables actually make noise.

Thanks re: the Red Room, which is also some hardcore handwaving. I should probably find out what the official story is in comics canon at some point.

I see Natasha's approach to friendship as very practically driven. Emotional intimacy is not so much her thing most of the time, so, sandwiches and occasional bits of pertinent intelligence data delivered like a cat dropping off a dead mouse.

"I don't want you, Murdock, I want Nelson," Brett said, a couple weeks later. Which was - shit, not good, not great, and what had Foggy's life become, that when Brett Mahoney dropped into the office unexpected, Foggy knew he had to think back on the last couple of weeks? Had he - no, he hadn't, that was the thing: so why would Brett be hunting him down in the middle of the workday?

"Anything you can tell Foggy you can tell me," Matt said. He stood with the fingers of one hand light against the edge of Karen's desk, consciously - or unconsciously - between her and Brett. Great. Karen saw him first, because Brett'd been standing with his back to the door, hands on his hips like he meant to intimidate, not like he meant to shoot the shit. She made the face - her eyes widened and she shook her head, fractionally, go away - before realizing what she was doing.

"What kind of conspiracy nut jobs," Brett said, and turned to glare at Foggy.

Karen winced, now that Foggy was the only one who could see her face, and mouthed sorry.

"Nelson," Brett growled, and fuck, this wasn't good, what was this about? And when had Foggy's life become the kind of situation where it was necessary to get your stories straight before the cops questioned you and your loved ones? "With me, we need to talk."

"Is he under arrest or wanted for inquiries?" Matt asked. It was his courtroom voice, or rather, one of his courtroom voices. One of the oldest tricks on the book, sure, say things in a deep quiet voice and people would automatically hone in on your words. That was bad enough. What was worse was that Foggy could see one of Matt's fists tightening around his cane, knuckles going white with pressure, and if Foggy could see it, then Brett sure as hell would notice it. He was a good cop, and not stupid, and what the hell was Matt thinking, escalating this situation?

Brett did indeed notice, because he shifted. Slightly. "The hell has gotten into all of you?"

"Matt," Karen said, and touched his elbow. "It's okay, though."

"It's not," Brett said, short and surprisingly troubled. "Nelson, I got to talk to you - unofficially, but keep it up, Murdock, and it's gonna be official pretty damn soon."

Foggy took a moment to be very fucking glad, for once, that Matt was the one usually marked up like a domestic violence ad. Brett wasn't stupid. It looked like he had, in fact, gotten past his surprise to consider the dynamics in the room. The morning sun was ice cold and water, coming in through their window, and it was only ten thirty, and Foggy wanted a nap. The last thing they needed was Matt drawing the attention of law enforcement, even if it was someone they knew, by being too aggressive. Possessive. Whatever.

"It's fine, I'll be right back," Foggy said.

Brett looked happy enough to pull him outside the door and grill him in the hallway, which - could go so, so wrong in so many ways that Foggy still didn't want to think about, much less plan around. There was, unfortunately, no way to say "please get further away so my best bud in there doesn't eavesdrop on what may or may not be an incriminating talk, thanks."

"Lemme buy you a coffee," Foggy said, instead.

"I don't want coffee, Nelson," Brett said, and fuck, continued: "I want to know what the hell you're doing talking to Gutierrez and Taylor lately."

"Is there a reason I shouldn't be?" Foggy asked, because haha, absolutely yes there was, and it was because Taylor was the kind of cop who would absolutely make sure that the people Daredevil beat up didn't waste time filing brutality claims. Unfortunately, he didn't do it for free, and he didn't want anything as simple or easy as the occasional box of cigars. Foggy and Karen had managed to keep him happy, for now, and not too terribly interested in why they were so interested in Daredevil's victims, but -

- well, people would've started talking eventually.

Foggy had no idea why Brett knew enough to be worried about them, or what else they might be involved in - Taylor was useful, and he and Karen needed as much help as they could manage - but there'd be time enough for those kinds of questions later, honestly.

Brett squinted at Foggy, hard, and then chuffed a disbelieving, scornful laugh. "You're stonewalling me," he said.

It was true, which put Foggy in this shitty position of having to a) lie to Brett's face, which would be a terrible idea because he was a good cop, or b), continue to stonewall, which would become comically obvious in about seven more seconds. He went with saying nothing - not least because shit, it wasn't like this was a private conversation. Unless Karen had come up with something really creative at the last second, Matt was undoubtedly listening in with all his might.

Foggy said nothing, and Brett rubbed his face, looking disappointed and more surprised than Foggy felt was strictly necessary.

"Fine," he said. "Y'know what? Fine - but I warned you, Nelson."

(ahahaha how does the mob work?)

I am in serious, serious love with this story. This is wonderful.

This could possibly fill a bunch of prompts but it at least fills this one :)

http://archiveofourown.org/works/4627668?view_full_work=true

the plot thickens!

Foggy if you go into mafia bussiness you ahve to make sure noone sees you talking to the person you gonan bribe or something like that. Buddy you are doing a lousy job being the kingpin

this is a really sweet and intriguing beginning! (and foggy is going to have SO MUCH TROUBLE with matt, for serious.)

...I've read those. I might actually write in a demon!Matt just for the hell of it. (hehe, hell.)

Thank you, everybody, for reading, and thank you especially for the reviews!

Anon1, glad you think it's lovely. You think it's scary that Foggy's gift can heal anything? Hmm, I never thought of it that way. Let's see what happens ...

Anon2, glad you find this both sweet and intriguing! And Trouble is Matt's middle name, let me tell you!

+++++

On Monday, Foggy wasn’t surprised to sense Matt’s injuries even before he walked in the door.

“Hey, Matt, how you doing?” he asked.

“Hey, Foggy, I’m fine,” Matt said.

“No, you’re not, and do you know how I know? Because my spidey-sense is tingling.” Foggy came up behind Matt and reached for the collar of Matt’s coat. “Here, let me help you get your things off.”

But Matt, probably perceiving Foggy’s plan of touching him on the neck and healing him before he knew what hit him, quickly turned to face him. “Spidey-sense, Foggy?”

“It sounds cooler than healing-sense. Or in your case, pain-sense. Come on, get over here.” Foggy reached out, and tried to make his voice sound low and ominous. “My gift knows, Matt. It wants to heal you.”

“You don’t have to,” Matt said.

“Actually, yes, I do.”

“What doesn’t Foggy have to do?” It was Karen, coming in.

“Matt tripped and bruised his knee.” Foggy didn’t mention all the other bruises he could sense on his best friend’s body. “I want to use my new healing gift on him.”

“Healing gift?” Karen looked dubiously at him and then at Matt. “What, like in the Bible?”

“Yup,” Foggy said. “Exactly like in the Bible. I got it from my grandma. All I have to do is lay my hands on Matt—“ he reached out, grabbed Matt’s hand, and practically shot the healing warmth into Matt’s skin, which made Matt gasp and pull away in surprise –“and he’s healed. Right, Matt?”

“I thought you had to lay hands on his head,” Karen said, and Matt replied, “I didn’t know you knew the Bible, Karen.”

“I only remember a little bit from Sunday School,” she replied, grimacing a little.

“Well, apparently, I only need skin contact,” Foggy explained. He felt the sudden exhaustion that he’d felt on Saturday, and wanted to go sit down, but he held his ground. “Cool, huh?”

“I guess.” Karen didn’t look convinced.

“Come on, roll up your pant leg, show her your beautiful, not-bruised knee,” Foggy said to Matt. He was getting hungry again, too, despite the fact that he’d just had breakfast less than an hour ago.

“Well, since I didn’t see the ‘before’ picture, the ‘after’ picture isn’t going to prove anything,” Karen said.

“She’s got a point,” Matt said.

“Well, next time Matt shows up with a black eye, I’ll wait until you’ve seen it before I give it my new Nelson healing touch,” Foggy replied. “Hey, Matt, since you’ve still got your coat on, how about you run out and buy me a bagel or something, huh? Right now, I’m going to drink some coffee with lots of sugar because I’m so hungry I’d probably starve to death on my way down the stairs, before I even got to the food.”

Matt frowned a little, but to Foggy’s surprise, he changed his frown to a smile and said, “Sure, Foggy.”

“Didn’t you have breakfast?” Karen asked.

“Healing makes me hungry. Takes all my energy,” Foggy replied. To Matt’s retreating back, he called, “Thanks, buddy, I owe you!”

Then he walked slowly to his desk and plopped down in his chair. The next thing he knew, Karen was shaking him awake. “Hey, Foggy, wake up, you’ve slept almost two hours and you’ve got a client. Matt says to eat something as fast as you can and meet them in the conference room.”

The next day, Matt was at the office before Foggy arrrived, already seated at his desk. When Foggy approached his open door, he held up a hand. “Don’t even think it. You can’t afford to sleep the entire morning away again.”

“It wasn’t the entire morning,” Foggy said. “It was only two hours. And I didn’t miss all that much anyway.”

Matt frowned. “I’m not really hurt, anyway. Just a few bruises. Less than yesterday, and it will all heal on its own. It’s not worth knocking you out like that.”

“I can see your point,” Foggy said, “but I can still tell you’re hurting. By the way, I’m calling my spidey-sense the Murdockmeter now.”

“The Murdockmeter?” Matt sounded slightly amused.

“Yeah, and on a scale from one to ten, you’re –“ Foggy hesitated, then decided. “Maybe a four. I’ll need to get some more readings so I have something to compare it with.”

“I’m at one point five,” Matt insisted. “One point six, maximum. And I’m not letting you touch me until I’m up to at least four. I can handle it, Foggy. Really.”

“You know, maybe if you didn’t go out every night, we could get this into some kind of work-friendly schedule. Let’s say Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. And every other Saturday,” Foggy suggested. “Then I’ll only have to heal you at work on Tuesdays and Thursdays , and we can schedule our clients around my recovery time. Win-win!”

But that made Matt frown even more. “Like I said, Foggy, you don’t have to do this every time, especially if it knocks you out for hours afterwards. I can take a little pain.”

Foggy sighed, and was about to protest again when Matt added, “Please, Foggy.”

Foggy threw up his hands in defeat. “All right, Matt, but only because you said ‘please.’”

It was hard for him to work next to Matt that morning, able to sense his friend’s pain but not being allowed to do anything about it. Foggy also noticed that the closer he got to Matt, the more he wanted to reach out and heal him. In fact, the need became noticeably stronger as the day went on. His hands began to twitch, only occasionally at first, but then more and more, and he stopped being able to concentrate on anything else except wanting to reach out. Finally, he just couldn’t take it any longer, and marched into Matt’s office.

“Foggy—“ Matt started to protest, but Foggy grabbed his left hand away from Matt’s refreshable braille display and let his healing power flow through Matt’s skin, gripping tightly when Matt tried to pull away. When the warmth ebbed, he let go and looked down at the floor.

“Sorry, Matt,” he said. “I couldn’t stop myself. All I could think of all day was that you were hurt and I wanted to help you. My hands were twitching! I had the feel for heal!”

“The feel for heal?” Matt repeated. Coming out of his lips, it sounded ridiculous, and Foggy cringed inwardly. Had he really said that? He floundered for an explanation. “Yeah, you know, like the need for speed, or—or roid rage or something like that. I had to do it, Matt!”

“I don’t want to say thank you, because I specifically told you not to,” Matt admitted. “But it does feel better.”

“I don’t,” Foggy realized, his heart sinking at what his action would mean. “I feel worse, knowing that you’re going to go out again to-night and undo all my good work.”

Matt grimaced a little. “Sorry. But as you say yourself, I have to do it.”

Foggy let his shoulders slump. “I guess I understand it a little better now, but I still hate it.”

“I know,” Matt said with a little sigh. “I know.”

He paused, then said quietly, “Good thing we don’t have clients this afternoon, huh?”

“You know, I don’t remember my grandma being asleep all the time,” Foggy said. “Maybe she got stronger as she went along, didn’t use up so much energy.”

“Maybe,” said Matt. “But for now, why don’t you go rest? I’ll wake you up when it’s time to go home.”

“Thanks,” Foggy said, and walked towards the door. Before he reached it, Matt said, “Thank you, Foggy.”

The next day, Foggy noticed his Murdockmeter suddenly increase in intensity, and came out of his office expecting to see Matt arrive. Instead, it was Karen, limping heavily.

“Hey, what happened to you?” Foggy asked, rushing forward to give her a hand.

“I twisted my ankle,” she said. “Practically tore the heel off my shoe, too.”

“I don’t think it’s just twisted, I think you sprained it,” Foggy said. “It feels pretty wrong for just a twist.”

“That’s kind of creepy that you can tell,” she said, letting him guide her to her seat while slipping her coat off. “Are you going to become a kind of vigilante, too, go running around at night healing people? Will you dress in white Spandex with a big red cross on your chest and swing in through hospital windows?”

“No way,” Foggy said, laughing at the idea. “I’d scare people to death if I wore white Spandex. Or any colour of Spandex, actually. Not to mention I’ve got to save the healing energy for Matt, and you, and my many relatives.” He reached out hesitantly. “Um – can I?”

“Sure,” she said, and he placed his hand over hers, letting the warmth flow out.

“It really works,” she exclaimed, standing up to try it out. Her heel wobbled, and she almost fell, but Foggy caught her. “That’s amazing!”

“Sorry I can’t do your shoe as well, but maybe we have some superglue in here somewhere?” Foggy suggested, holding her until she’d steadied herself. She was thinner than Marci, but Foggy didn’t mind the difference. He wondered if she ever compared his body to Matt’s, and whether she minded the difference.

“I don’t think we do, but I can run out on my lunch break and get some,” Karen said. “Or I can just buy a new pair of shoes. These were getting old anyway.”

“I’d offer to get you new shoes, but I’d probably pick out something that you hate,” Foggy said. “But I can get the superglue, because I don’t want you going out and twisting your ankle again the minute I’ve got it healed. In fact, I can go right now and be back in half an hour.”

“Thanks, Foggy,” Karen said, and gave him a smile. “But don’t you have to sleep it off first?”

Foggy considered. “I don’t feel especially tired. Maybe healing you isn’t as strenuous as healing Matt.”

“I thought he just bruised his knee yesterday,” Karen said. “There shouldn’t be that much difference between a bruised knee and a sprained ankle. I’d think the ankle would be worse.”

“Well, maybe I’m getting used to it already, building up my strength.”

“That’d be good.” Karen smiled, and Foggy smiled with her.

“So, we’ve still got time for me to run to the store quickly, anything else you need while I’m out?”

“Nope, can’t think of anything. Though I was wondering …” She let her voice trail off before asking, “Can you heal yourself?”

Foggy thought about it. “I don’t think so. Maybe a little. Grandma didn’t say.”

“You could try it out with something small, like a papercut,” Karen suggested, just as Matt came in.

“Yeah, maybe when I get back,” Foggy said. He knew without even looking that Matt’s face was bruised, and not only his face.

“Where are you going?” Matt asked.

“To get some superglue.”

“Why do we need superglue?”

“To glue you to your chair so you don’t have any more accidents,” Foggy told him, which made Matt frown and Karen laugh. “Which, by the way, I can sense. As you know. So don’t tell me – you walked into the door of a cabinet that you left open?”

“Wasn’t watching where I was going,” Matt replied in his self-deprecating way.

“You know, we’ve got to put those cabinets behind bars, they’re dangerous elements in the kitchen,” Foggy said. “But, Matt, your bruises will have to wait until I get back with that glue.”

“It’s for my shoe,” Karen explained. “I almost broke the heel off it, and sprained my ankle. Foggy’s just going to run out quickly before nap time.”

“Hey, it isn’t a nap,” Foggy protested. “It’s R&R – rest and recovery. And I might not even need it to-day. I think I’m getting the hang of this healing gift now.”

He went out and noticed that he had to be a good fifteen paces away from Matt before his Murdockmeter faded to zero. Coming back, he found it picked up again at approximately the same area. Awkward, since there was no place in the office he could retreat to that was that far away from Matt, but good to know nonetheless. And after he’d healed Matt, he tried the papercut experiment that Karen had suggested, but it didn’t work. Well, he thought, at least he was getting better at not falling asleep ...

The next thing he knew, Karen was shaking his shoulder and saying something about his snoring amusing their clients.

Aww, that was sweet. I hope you do write more.

(op) omg, i'm so excited that someone's filled this, and done it so well! i love it, and if you were to continue that would be amazing. the way you've set everything up just makes me want more haha - i'm guessing matt won't be able to resist going back for another coffee with the odd-but-nice lawyer man? :D also omg were they at columbia at the same time?!! i wanna knowwww!!

but seriously even if you don't continue, this is absolutely the sweetest. thank you for doing something so great with my tiny prompt <3

yay!

Foggy will fall sleep eevrywhere if eh keeps up liek that

Author!anon here: You're very welcome, I'm glad you liked it!

Author!anon here: Haha, glad I could help out. And I know how you feel. I've written a shit-ton of fills, and only ever got one of my many prompts filled by someone else.

Anna stilled in the darkened hallway, listening closely. She had only gotten up to go to the bathroom and hadn't expected anyone else in the house to be awake. It was 4am. But she could hear the tap tap tap of fingers on a keyboard coming from the living room, see the vague light of the laptop screen reflecting on the wood-paneled hallway wall.

"Frankie?" she asked quietly, so as not to disturb anyone in the rest of the house.

He was muttering to himself and intensely focused on the screen in front of him. As she approached the living room, she could see books strewn across the coffee table and a mug balanced precariously near it's corner. Next to the mug was a bottle of pills, although Anna couldn't make out what exactly they were.

"Frankie, sweetheart, what are you still doing up?" Anna asked. "Don't you have school in the morning?"

Finally, the boy looked up at her, jittery and alert. "Don't worry about it, Anna. I'll be fine. I have to get this done."

His hands twitched with the desire to press his fingers back onto the keyboard, to keep going. His right leg moved restlessly up and down.

"It's 4am," Anna told him. "You're a growing teenager. Believe me, you need to sleep."

"I said don't worry about it, Anna. It's none of your business, alright?" Franklin told her angrily. He had no intention of listening to her. She sighed and went to the bathroom, resolving to talk to Eddie in the morning about his son's night owl tendencies and the bottle of pills that she'd seen.

The next morning, Anna observed Franklin carefully. He woke at his usual early hour, and seemed to be behaving normally as he got his things together to go meet his car and head to school. He didn't seem tired at all.

"Aren't you going to eat anything, Frankie?" she asked him as she saw him move towards the door.

"Huh?" Franklin said absentmindedly. "Oh, I'm not hungry." And he left.

Anna took a moment to try and remember the last time that she had seen her stepson eat. He had stopped sitting down for dinner with them, preferring instead to cook his own meals and eat in his bedroom at his desk. She could tell that he had lost weight, and he seemed to be constantly on edge, nervous and under pressure. It worried her.

"Eddie," she asked her husband as he sat down at the breakfast table. "Have you noticed anything strange about Frankie lately?"

"That kid's always been strange," Eddie said. "Too much like his mother. You know that."

Anna sighed. She wished that Eddie wouldn't compare Franklin to his mother so much. It added to the distance between them and made the situation worse than it had to be. "It's more than that. Has he been eating? I caught him up at 4am last night working on his schoolwork. There was a pill bottle out. I'm trying to remember what the warning signs were for drug abuse that Candace's school did that presentation on? He's been pushing himself so hard and I'm getting very worried. You should talk to him."

"And say what exactly?" Eddie said. "You know he doesn't listen to a word I say."

"So you're just not even going to try?" Anna asked him. "Eddie, he's your son. You need to do something. What if he's in some kind of trouble? Or having difficulty at school? We're his parents. We should know these things."

Eddie sighed. "Alright," he said. "I'll talk to him. I can't promise it'll do any good, but I'll try."

Franklin came through the apartment door exhausted. His prescription for his Adderall had been waiting to be refilled and he hadn't been able to find the time until he'd run out, and so he'd finally had to have Reynaldo run him to a pharmacy on the way home from school. He'd taken them, but they hadn't kicked in yet, and he was waiting for that rush to come on so that he could spend the night studying for his calculus exam in the morning.

He should have felt more prepared than he was and he knew it. But Marci's 16th birthday had been the weekend before, and so all thoughts of studying had fallen away in favor of a two-day bender spent high on MDMA with Marci at his side, the two of them barely leaving the bed in her mother's tiny apartment. It was a consolation prize to make up for the weekend that he didn't get to have with Rosalind, the third in a row that she had cancelled. He understood. She was involved in a long and difficult trial defending one of Boston's most notorious Irish organized crime heads, finally apprehended after a 12 year manhunt. But it still stung that the only way he had been able to see his mother in the last two months had been by watching the trial coverage on CourtTV. She wasn't even taking his calls and he was tired of talking to her through David.

He came in to find Anna cooking dinner at the stove. "Hi honey," she said.

He just dumped his bags on the kitchen floor, fell into a chair and lay his head down on the kitchen table with a groan.

"Tired?" Anna asked, ruffling his hair. "I guess so. You were up late last night."

"Well, yeah," Franklin said, lifting his head to scowl at her. "I have exams."

"Still," Anna said, "Being tired won't make them any easier."

He didn't respond. He didn't feel like he could move.

"A letter came for you today," Anna said, pointing at the pile of mail on the table. "It looked very official."

Franklin looked up at her, not comprehending what she was saying, and so she handed the letter to him. He took it, and his eyes widened.

"Oh, God," he said. "My SAT scores. I thought for sure Rosalind would have had a way to find out the scores before they came to me."

"Well..." Anna said, "How did you do?"

Franklin didn't want to open them.

"Awww, are you nervous? I bet you did well," Anna said. "You're so smart. And you studied so hard. What are you nervous about?"

Franklin gulped as he remembered how hard he had studied. Anna and his dad didn't even know about all the extra hours he'd spent at the public library when they thought he was out with friends. He had gotten tired of hearing them tell him that he needed to pace himself or that he didn't need to worry so much.

They didn't know about the sleepless nights, the dizziness and faint feelings that overcame him when he went long hours studying without eating or stopping.

And they had no idea that he'd spent the morning of the test vomiting in the school bathroom, or that he'd sat through the entire test barely able to read what was in front of him because his vision was blurred and he worried he was going to pass out. He was barely able to even get through all the questions in front of him within the allotted time. He'd choked. He knew it.

Slowly, with trembling fingers, he opened the envelope and unfolded the paper inside. His heart sunk as he read the number there. 1260. The bottom 25%. Goodbye Ivy League colleges. Maybe goodbye to college at all. Everything he'd been working for meant nothing.

In his head, he heard Rosalind's angry diatribe as she told him how disappointing he was, how much of a waste of her time, energy, and money he had been all along. "I shouldn't have expected any better," she said. "You're your father's son after all. I don't know why I bothered."

He felt wet tears trying to escape the corners of his eyes, and he stiffened and told himself he wasn't going to cry. It wouldn't do any good at this point.

"Oh sweetie..." he heard Anna say with pity in her voice. "Is it that bad?"

"Don't talk to me," he told her. "Just don't..." He threw the letter on the table and ran to the bathroom as quickly as he could, sobbing as his empty stomach heaved up bile and pills.

He felt Anna move behind him. She put her hand on his back and rubbed it gently, but he bristled. "Fuck off, Anna!" he yelled, his throat raw. "Get the hell away from me!"

She left.

By the time he came out the bathroom, Anna was gone. But his dad was sitting at the kitchen table with a tense look on his face. He was holding the letter.

"That's mine," Franklin said.

"The words you're looking for are 'I'm very, very sorry'," said his dad.

"I know the scores are bad. So bad. Apocalyptically bad," Franklin said, his voice drained of all emotion.

"You really think that's what you should be sorry for?" his dad asked. "You made Anna cry, Frankie! She's been really worried about you lately and you treated her like she was dirt underneath your shoe. You don't get to talk to her like that."

"Are you for real right now?" Franklin asked. "I got a 1260 on my SATs. I know that you don't give a shit about my education or my future, but do you even understand what I'm going through right now? Boo hoo. Anna's upset. My life is over."

"Oh, kid, you are pushing your luck," his dad said. "Your life is not over. You are 16 years old, and you'll land on your feet. Hell, you can take the test again next year! What matters is that you can't walk around acting like you're the most important person in the universe! Where the hell did you learn that it's okay to treat people like that? Oh, wait, I know exactly where you got it from."

"Right," Franklin said, "because that's always what it's about, isn't it? I remind you of her. I remind her of you. It's always you or her. And it's never me. Never what I'm going through. You hate that I love her more than you. You hate that you can't give me the things that she can. Well whose fault is that? Maybe if I hadn't had to spend time I could have been studying worrying about your store or watching your daughter or if I'd had my own room to study in, I wouldn't have done so poorly. You have no idea how much I put up with living here, how much I hate it. How much I hate you!"

"Well why don't you just go live with your mother then? Oh, now I remember. You can't. Because Saint Rosalind, the woman who gives you so much, doesn't want you. Never wanted you. Everything you have is there because I forced her in a court of law to give it to you," his dad said. "She loves showing up and playing the hero, buying your love with her money, but at the end of the day where the hell is she, Frankie? Why would she let you live here, if I'm really so terrible? You wanna go live with her? That's great! You go do that! Because we don't want you around any more than you want to be here at this point."

"Yeah?" Franklin asked, furious. He ran to his room and pulled his suitcases out of the closet, began throwing clothes and other items into them.

"Hell yeah!" his dad said. "Don't let the door hit your ass on the way out! Just don't be surprised if she sends you right back though. She's not who you think she is, kid, and if you want to have to learn it the hard way then be my guest."

"Fine, then!" Franklin yelled. "I'll tell you the same thing I told Anna. You can fuck off. I'm so done with this!" He grabbed his school bags and tore down the stairs to the street, suitcases thumping on every step.

Thankfully, Rosalind's doorman recognized him immediately when he arrived at her New York City apartment. The cab driver helped him unload his things and the doorman let him in but told him that he was going to have to alert Rosalind that Franklin was there. Franklin told him that it was fine. He'd already tried to call Rosalind in the cab, but had gotten her voicemail. He'd left a message telling her that he and his dad had fought and that he was heading to her place to stay.

The adrenaline of the situation carried him all the way to Rosalind's uncomfortable white leather sofa, where the enormity of everything that had happened finally hit him and he collapsed, laying there struggling to breathe as the panic overtook him.

He was so tired. And so angry. And so anxious. His body trembled and he felt hazy from the powerful stew of contradictory and overwhelming emotions flooding through him.

His phone rang. It was David.

"Hello," Franklin said.

"Franklin, it's David calling from your mother's office," he heard. David always said this, ever the professional, even though Franklin had caller ID and knew who he was.

"I'm calling to let you know that your mother is in court for the next three days and so she'll be unavailable to address your unfortunate situation," David continued. "However, she's asked me to tell you to stay at her apartment and finish your exams. There's no groceries currently, but your mother has a standing delivery order with Direct to Home groceries that I'm going to place for you tonight, so expect that to be there by tomorrow afternoon. You can use your AMEX to order delivery tonight. I've already let Reynaldo know that you're not at home so he'll pick you up from there in the morning. I've booked you a 10am flight out from JFK to Logan Airport on Saturday morning. A driver will pick you up. After that, you are welcome to stay at her apartment here until she's able to find the time to make other arrangements with you. Does that sound alright?"

"Yeah," Franklin said. "That sounds great, David. Thank you."

"Just doing my job, kid," he said. "Do you need anything else?"

"No," Franklin said, "I'm good."

David hung up and Franklin sat up and looked around. He hadn't lied. Suddenly, he did actually feel good. Great, even. Because it occurred to him that maybe this was a fresh start. He could live with Rosalind. And he could explain to her that this poor SAT scores were his dad's fault, and retake the test his senior year. And he could be who she wanted him to be, who he wanted to be, for the first time.

It felt like everything might actually be okay. So he popped another Adderall, and he pushed the pang in his chest that felt bad about hating his dad and Anna, that missed his sister, away. He had to. They didn't want him anyway.

Foggy you screw things up now you are up to a bigger dissapoinment.

Matt sat unhappily in the chair across from the DA, Jack Kendall, trying to be patient while the man finished his phone call. He didn't know how this conversation was going to go and it terrified him. He had alerted the DA to what he had heard about Hoffman and his credibility, and the man had asked him to come in. He suspected it wasn't to thank him.

Finally, the DA ended his call and directed his attention towards Matt.

"So, Mr. Murdock," he said, "Based on our previous conversation, I'm assuming that you know that I didn't call you with good news."

"I had a suspicion," said Matt.

"Yes, well, while we thank you for letting us know that your client's testimony has come under scrutiny, we did expect it. It's not unusual, especially when the testimony in question essentially underpins every fact of the case," Kendall continued. "However, we were were hoping that you and your partner could provide us with some assistance in backing up Mr. Hoffman's story and ensuring that we understand it. Ms. Sharpe is famous for her cross-examinations. We need to be prepared for anything."

"Oh?" said Matt. "We've told you everything we know, and anything further would be protected by attorney-client privilege and is between us and Mr. Hoffman. It's him you should be questioning, Mr. Kendall, not me."

"This isn't actually about Mr. Hoffman," the DA said. "This is actually about your firm's association with the man in the mask. The Devil of Hell's Kitchen, or Daredevil as they're now calling him."

Matt was glad that his glasses often prevented people from being able to read his facial expressions accurately. He knew that the shock and surprise must have registered on his face at the question.

"Association?" he asked. "What makes you think that we know anything about him?"

"Well," said Kendall, "Despite Mr. Nelson's initial claim that Mr. Hoffman simply wished to unburden himself, he is now making an altogether different claim. While he still maintains that the man in the mask rescued him, he is now also claiming that it was that same mystery man who convinced him to testify and who told him which cop to confess to and which lawyers to call."

Matt took a moment to think on his feet and come up with an answer that would hold up to close scrutiny. "Clearly," he said carefully, "Mr. Nelson and I had been building a reputation for honesty and fairness in the time since we opened our doors. Daredevil must have heard of us."

"You'd only taken on three cases," Kendall said. "That's quite the reputation."

"Given that one of those cases was that of Karen Page, whom Daredevil had previously helped to break the Union Allied story, and of Elena Cardenas, who was also so closely linked to Fisk's criminal activity," Matt said, "it's not surprising that we might be on his radar. He was clearly involved with trying to take down Fisk's criminal enterprises just as we were."

"He was," Kendall said, "and that's actually the big problem for us. Because nobody knows who he is and nobody can speak to his motives, it's going to be easy for the defense to make him a scapegoat. Which they are already doing in the press, and not without some success. Daredevil is a vigilante. He was potentially involved with the Russians, and there are links between him and the Chinese heroin trade and the Yakuza. We can connect him to a half-dozen deaths at least, including that of your client Mr. Healy and Mrs. Cardenas' murderer. While Hoffman claims that it was Fisk's men who shot Blake and his fellow officers, original reports did have the masked man as the culprit. If Daredevil had it out for Fisk, it's not a complete stretch to argue that potentially the whole thing was a set-up, that if Daredevil could convince Hoffman to testify against Fisk to begin with than he could also convince him to lie for him. We've got a lot of desperate criminals willing to testify who are pissing their pants in fear of the guy, and we've got absolutely nothing to back up the fact that the coercion happening is legitimately on the side of the truth."

"No?" Matt asked. "It seems to me that you should be able to spit and hit dozens of people whose lives Daredevil has saved."

"Maybe," said Kendall, "but that might just be exactly what Rosalind Sharpe wants. We start putting them on the stand and suddenly it's Daredevil on trial and not Fisk. What a spectacle that would be, and what a complete diversion from Fisk's guilt."

"So what does that mean for my client?" Matt asked.

"It means that, if you and your partner really don't know why Daredevil gave Mr. Hoffman your names, I would recommend that you refer him to another attorney," Kendall said. "I can guarantee you that if you stay on as his representation, Ms. Sharpe will imply that you and your partner were working with Daredevil as part of a larger conspiracy against Mr. Fisk. Your other connections to the case, to the documents from Landman and Zack, to Mr. Healy and Mrs. Cardenas and Ms. Page, will almost certainly become a problem. May still be one, even if you do remove yourselves from the equation. Who knows? Fisk's defense may choose to call you to the stand to assist with their argument."

Matt's hands clutched the armrests of his chair, instinctively wanting to ball themselves into fists as his entire body tensed in anger. "Of course," he said, struggling to say the words. "We want to do what's best for our client in the long run and have no interest in aiding with Fisk's defense or obstructing his prosecution."

"Excellent," said Kendall, "and if you do think of any other reason why Daredevil would have given your name to Hoffman, please let us know, Mr. Murdock. The more information we have to work with, the less likely we are to be blindsided later on or have to deal with an appeal when new information comes to light. We wouldn't want that, now would we?"

Matt felt as though all of the air had just been sucked from the room. Did even the DA believe that there was a chance that Fisk was being set up and that he and Foggy were a part of it? Or did they suspect that he was involved with Daredevil? What if they did get called to testify? He and Foggy having to answer questions about Daredevil under oath was like something right out of one of Matt's nightmares. "As I said, Mr. Kendall, we've provided you with all of the information we have. But I will discuss it with my partner and see if there's anything else we can think of. Thank you."

He left the room quickly, intending to find somewhere where he could let his rage loose. Instead, he nearly bumped into someone entering the DA's office after him. Rosalind Sharpe.

"Sorry," he said through gritted teeth.

"Oh, it's alright," Rosalind said. "I'd say that you should watch where you're going next time, but... well..."

He went to leave, but before he could, the woman stepped back in front of him. "You're Mr. Murdock, aren't you?" she said.

"And you're Rosalind Sharpe," he said back.

"You've heard of me, of course," she said. "Although whether or not it's by my legal reputation or through my son may make a big difference. He's not exactly my biggest fan, is he?"

"No," Matt said, "He's not. Did you want something from me, Ms. Sharpe?"

"Are you friends?" she asked.

Matt was confused. "Excuse me?"

"You and Franklin. Is that why he's so resistant to the job I offered him? If so, then could you tell him that there's room for both of you at Sharpe and Associates? If that's what it takes, then I'm willing to do it. I'm sure you're a more than capable lawyer and you would certainly help keep the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission off our backs, hmm? Seven figures? A big corner office with your name on it? I guess you won't be as interested in the view, but it's still very nice." She reached for his hand and put a business card in it.

"Talk to him," she said. "And then call me, Mr. Murdock. Your cooperation would not go unrewarded."

"No thank you," Matt said as politely as he could manage, and he tore the business card up in front of her. "Foggy," he said, emphasizing the name, "is my friend. And I trust his judgment when it comes to people, including you. Goodbye, Ms. Sharpe."

Once she entered the office, he nearly tripped over his cane all but running to the bathroom. He spent a few minutes dry heaving into the sink and splashed some water on his face, willing himself to calm down. He left holding onto his bruised and scraped knuckles, hoping desperately that nobody paid enough attention to know what time the mirror inside had been cracked.

The knock on Foggy's door was sad in how tentative it was. Matt didn't know if Foggy would even answer, if he would want to talk to him after what had happened with Brett. But he waited. And soon enough, he heard footsteps from inside, felt the vibration of the deadbolt moving, and the door opened. Only a crack. The chain was still in place.

"It's me," Matt said. "Can I come in?"

"I don't really want to talk to you right now," Foggy said.

"So you're going to keep ignoring me?" Matt said. "I talked to the DA today. And Rosalind."

The door swung wide open, and Matt entered Foggy's apartment.

"What?" Foggy said. "What did they say? Why were you talking to Rosalind?" He threw himself down onto the living room sofa.

"The DA suggested that we recuse ourselves as Hoffman's attorneys," Matt said. "Apparently Rosalind's defense is going to be to suggest that Daredevil has it out for her client and is setting him up, and that we're part of it given that Daredevil told Hoffman to come to us."

"What?" Foggy asked. "Jesus! What did you tell him?"

"I told him that we had no idea why Daredevil gave Hoffman our names, that it was probably because of the work we were doing on the tenement case and because of Karen," Matt said, "and that we would be happy to refer our client to someone else."

"What? Why?" Foggy asked.

"Because if we don't do that then there's a good possibility that our being Hoffman's lawyers will get in the way of the DA's case," Matt said, "and even the potential that Rosalind might call us to the stand to testify."

"Shit," Foggy said. "Goddammit! I told you! Oh God... we're going to be disbarred. You're going to go to jail and it's all going to come out. I can't even..." Foggy keeled over and began having a panic attack.

"Foggy," Matt said gently, sitting down next to his friend, "It's going to be okay." He put his hand on Foggy's shoulder to try and steady him. "I'm not going to let any of that happen. This is my fault, and I'm going to fix it. But first..."

Foggy leaned back, his breathing somewhat more regular and looked at Matt. "Matt..." he said, trying to stop the man from continuing.

"...first I need you to tell me the truth about Rosalind. I need to know why you hid it from me. I can't do this alone, Foggy. I told myself after everything that happened that I wouldn't go down that road again. I need you with me on this. I'm not mad, I promise, only confused. Please, Foggy. Talk to me."

"You talked to her?" Foggy asked.

"More like she talked to me. She told me to tell you that if your friendship with me was what was stopping you from taking the job she offered you that she was willing to hire me too," Matt said.

"I was going to tell you about that..." Foggy said, but Matt interrupted him.

"It's okay. I knew already," Matt told him. "I heard her car pull up to your building that night while I was out on the streets. I heard what she said to you. I'm sorry for eavesdropping. I couldn't help it."

Foggy sighed. "I meant it when I told you that I haven't spoken to her since I was 17. And I never lied to you about who my parents are. Anna is my mom, Matt. I love her. She raised me. She's the only mom I have that matters."

"Okay," Matt said. "I believe you, Foggy. But you did see Rosalind growing up?"

"She paid for everything. Made sure I was taken care of. I didn't lie. I want you to know that. I did grow up in Hell's Kitchen. But..."

"But?" Matt asked.

"I went to private school," Foggy explained. "Spent a lot of time with her at her penthouse or in Boston. Traveled a lot. I was never exactly the working class kid I pretended to be. I'm sorry."

"Do you think I care about that, Foggy?" Matt asked. "It doesn't matter. You're my friend now. The past is the past. What happened when you were 17?"

"I started to realize things about her," Foggy said. "Things about the kind of person she was, the clients she worked with, and what she did for a living. I started to question how she treated people. How she treated me. We had a falling out. I mean, you met her. She's... difficult."

"That's the nice way of putting it," Matt said.

"Yeah," Foggy said, "Well, I just couldn't be around her anymore. She was toxic. She wanted to control my life and shape who I was and I didn't want to be who she wanted me to be, you know? So I told her off. And she cut the money off. My private school tuition. My college fund. All of it. And we never spoke again after that."

Matt knew that there was more to the story than that. There was something Foggy wasn't telling him, something that terrified the man and sat in the pit of his stomach like a stone. Matt could almost sense the weight of it, like it was a visceral thing. But he didn't tell Foggy that. He didn't need to know. Wasn't sure he wanted to.

"And now she's here to, what? Win you back? By blackmailing you into working for her?" Matt asked.

"It seems like it," Foggy said. "But I doubt that's all there is to it. She certainly doesn't miss me, like she's claiming. I honestly don't know why she's here, Matt. But I'm starting to think that taking her offer might be the only way to get us out of this. To make her go away."

"No," said Matt. "We'll find another way. I would never make you do that, Foggy. We're Nelson and Murdock. We'll solve this together. That's the way it's supposed to be."

"But if either of us get called to testify, Matt, what happens then? Or, worse, what if she actually gets Fisk off?" Foggy asked. "How do I live with that on my conscience?"

"It won't come to that," Matt said with certainty.

"How do you know?" Foggy asked.

"I have faith," Matt said.

"Well, your priest must be proud," Foggy said.

"Not in God," Matt said. "In us."

He picked up his briefcase and began to unload his laptop onto Foggy's coffee table. "Now," he told Foggy, "let's get to work."

"You're not going to go out on the streets tonight? Bust some heads?" Foggy asked.

"As much as I'd like to, it doesn't seem to be helping," Matt said, "And besides, after what the DA told me today I wouldn't put it past Rosalind to have someone following us. It's too risky. I told you once that Daredevil was needed when law met reality. Well, reality doesn't seem to have any bearing on what's happening right now. So, law it is. Let's look through the documents Marci gave us for connections again. There's got to be something there that can connect the dots without needing Hoffman."

"Okay," Foggy said, a smile creeping onto his face. "But let's call Karen and see if she wants to help, okay? I know her. She'll be pissed if we leave her out, and she's good at this kind of thing."

"Yeah," said Matt, smiling too. And he felt a sliver of hope, like everything might actually be okay.

This story is so good! I'm at the edge of my seat!

Brett opened the door to his apartment, and before he’d even got both feet in, his mother announced, “I just can’t believe it.“

“What, Mom?” he asked. “And can’t I come in and have some supper before you start telling me about all the crimes in this neighbourhood that never get reported?”

“They get reported. I’m reporting them right now,” she told him.

“Yes, Mom,” he sighed. Maybe he could distract her. “Oh, by the way, Foggy Nelson sends you these.”

He handed over a paper bag, and Bess opened it eagerly, finding the cigars that Brett hated, but which Foggy never failed to buy whenever he needed something from Officer Mahoney at the 5th Precinct. It wasn’t bribery, not exactly, but Brett didn’t know what the word was for somebody else encouraging your own mother to put pressure on you.

“Finally!” she crowed. “I was starting to worry I’d run out before Christmas. If you hadn’t come home with these soon, I would have been after you to do something nice for Foggy.”

She took out a cigar, reached around on the tiny table next to her armchair, and found her lighter. Brett sighed unhappily as she lit up and inhaled lustily.

“Your plate’s in the microwave, and I already set the time, all you have to do is press the button,” she called out.

“I know, Mom,” he called back, readjusting the time before pressing the button. “We’ve only been doing this for twenty years now, ever since we bought our first microwave and I had to show you how to use it.”

“I’ll bet Foggy Nelson doesn’t sass his mother the way you sass yours.”

“I wasn’t sassing, I was merely telling the truth, and of course Foggy doesn’t sass. He doesn‘t even live at home!” Brett didn’t know or care if his childhood frenemy lived in a broom closet now, or even in a sleeping bag under his desk at his office, at least he wasn’t forced to share with his mother. Brett loved his mom, but sometimes, she just got on his nerves.

“He still got that long hair?”

“Uh huh. Why do you ask? You thinking of growing yours out?”

Bess inhaled again and grinned. “Just thinking about that time when he showed up here that one time and said his father got so sick of looking at it that he sneaked in and cut it when Foggy was asleep. Poor boy looked like a porcupine got in a fight with a weed whacker. I practically had to shave his head to make him look presentable again. Don’t think he’s had it cut since.”

“Mom, that was years ago, why are you thinking of that now?” But Brett grinned at the memory, too, and seeing that he was relaxed, Bess pounced. “So, speaking of animals, I heard that somebody broke in at Ross’s and took Young Al’s black snake while he was out shopping with his brother.”

Brett groaned inwardly. His distraction hadn’t worked. “They took his snake? What kind of weird-ass person wants a six-foot-long black snake? I mean, besides Young Al.”

Young Al was actually ten years older than Brett, but was officially called Young Al in deference to his father, also an Al. Unofficially, his name was Weird Al, but Brett had learned the hard way not to call him that in the presence of his mother.

“Well, that’s what I heard. Just grabbed Indiana Fangs right out of his terrarium, and in weather like this, too. Poor thing’ll probably freeze right up without his heat lamps.”

“Indiana Fangs? Wait, that snake had a name?” The microwave dinged, and Brett used a hot pad to retrieve his supper. “And I’m sure it won’t freeze. It’ll just go into hibernation or something.”

“That snake was like family to Young Al. Of course he named it.”

“And did Young Al or any of member of his family report the theft to the police?” Brett asked as he carried his plate to the table and removed the cover. Leftover meat and potatoes again, and with congealed gravy that the microwave never managed to get fluid again. Oh, joy.

“They reported it to me,” his mother said, exhaling, then coughing in his direction.

“Mom, do you have to breathe all over my supper? And I keep reminding you every day that them telling you so that you’ll tell me is not reporting it to the police,” Brett reminded her. “It’s not official.”

“I know, but you know as well as I do that Young Al and official police don’t always play well together,” his mother said, and Brett sighed, because he did know it, all too well. The name Weird Al was more of an accurate description than a celebrity-inspired moniker.

“I said you’d stop by after you’ve walked me to church for choir practice,” his mother went on.

Brett groaned, then took another forkful of potatoes and watched his mother puff happily away. He’d used to like the smell of those cigars, until his dad had died suddenly, and he’d started to worry about heart disease, lung cancer, and secondhand smoke. “Mom, tell me, with all that smoking you do, how do you even have enough breath to sing?”

“So what if I have to mouth the words every so often?” she asked. “I like talking to my friends, seeing what’s new. And who’s new. We had a new tenor last week. Mmm mmm. He can sit down at my table any day.”

“Mom …”

“He looks like he needs to sit down at my table. Skinny as one side of a piece of paper, could use some good food.”

“I was waiting for you to say something like that, Mom.”

“Uh huh. So you’ll go over and talk to Young Al?”

“Yeah.” At least it would give him something to talk about at the precinct to-morrow.

“Good. Now eat up so we can go. I don’t want to be late.”

Brett ate rapidly. The faster he could get his mother to the church, the faster he could get over to the Ross’s and talk about the missing snake, and maybe he’d have time to sit down and watch one of his television shows before Mom got home again and made him switch over to the news. Ever since that damned Daredevil had appeared on the scene, Mom kept hoping for new footage of him, and for all the wrong reasons.

It had started to snow before they set out and the ground was already white. Brett wasn’t surprised that they were some of the only people out. At the crosswalk ahead, a car stopped, and two men got out, looking around as though lost, then coming towards them. Brett thought they were going to ask for directions, but as they got closer, one of the men suddenly thrust out his arm. There was a snake wrapped once around his wrist, a black snake with an open mouth, fangs, and a tongue flicking in Brett’s direction.

To his credit, Brett didn’t scream, but he did take an automatic step backwards, and the skin on the back of his neck crawled. A snake. Why’d it have to be a snake? He could have dealt with a regular hold-up, with a gun or a knife, but not with a poisonous snake twitching right in his face. It was a huge snake, too, long enough that the man had to support several coils of it with his other arm.

“Give us all your money, or the snake’ll bite,” the second man growled. “And believe me, it’s poisonous.”

The first man jabbed his arm forwards again, this time close to Bess’s face, but she not only stood her ground, she swung her handbag at the man’s arm, knocking it away with a solid-sounding thump.

“I know that snake!” she said, catching the second man with the backhand of her purse. “That snake’s name is Indiana Fangs, and you ought to be ashamed of kidnapping somebody’s pet and using him for armed robbery! Let him go right now, otherwise this police officer will arrest you!”

“Wha — ARGH!” the first man cried as the snake, unhappy with the situation, angled its head and sank its fangs into his bare hand. Bess hit him again with her purse, and suddenly, he couldn’t get drop the snake fast enough. His accomplice had already turned and was running back towards the car, jumping into the front seat. The car started to drive off even before the snake handler was free, and he shook his arm up and down in panic until all of Indiana Fangs had slid onto the ground. Then he ran as well, racing up the street after the car and calling out, “Wait! Get me to the hospital before I die! This was your idea – you owe me, bro!”

“Whoa,” Brett said, stepping back again as the snake moved at his feet.

“Well, don’t just stand there,” his mother snapped. “Pick him up!”

“I ain’t touching no snake!” Brett said, slipping back into the dialect of his childhood for one terrified moment. Then he gathered himself. “I’ll call the precinct, we’ll get an expert over here.”

“It’s not like he’s poisonous! All you have to do is pick him up carefully and fold him into my purse here,” his mother said.

“If it’s so easy, then you do it!”

“Well, just hold the purse open and I will!” His mother bent down to the black coils on the sidewalk. “Poor Indiana Fangs, all cold and frightened. Come here, little snakey, I’ll get you back to Young Al.”

Little snakey. As though that thing weren’t longer than Brett was tall. Staring in horrified fascination, Brett caught his breath as his mother let the snake smell her fingers, then carefully picked it up, just as though she’d been wrangling reptiles all her life. With her other hand, she guided the tail end carefully into her purse. Brett held it open as wide as he could, hoping desperately that none of the snake’s scales would even come close to his fingers.

“I hope there’s enough room in there,” his mother said as she arranged the reptile. “We might have to take the brick out.”

“What brick?”

“The brick I always carry in my bag in case I need to whack somebody,” she replied. Brett thought he heard muffled laughter from somewhere above them, but he couldn’t take his eyes away from the snake long enough to look.

“You carry a concealed brick in your purse?” So that’s why his mother’s purse was always so heavy. He’d thought it was just woman stuff. No wonder the snake had bitten, and both men had run away!

“Poor thing, you’re half-frozen already,” his mother cooed, continuing to push the sinuous black body into her purse. Brett began to worry that she’d decide there wasn’t enough room, and make him reach in for the brick. But thankfully, the purse was voluminous enough to hold everything, and Bess snapped it shut with a little sound of satisfaction.

“No time for choir practice to-night,” his mother said. “We’d better get Indiana Fangs here back to Young Al before that boy does something foolish in his grief.”

“Yeah, the sooner that snake’s back where it belongs, the better,” Brett said. There was another amused sound from somewhere above, and Brett glanced up. Despite the falling snow, or perhaps because of its whiteness, he was able to see a red and black figure standing on the roof of the nearby two story building, staring down at them with his hands on his hips.

Daredevil. Just standing there, watching Brett and his mother get held up at snake-point. Of course.

“Hey!” Brett shouted. “Why didn’t you come down here and help!”

“I didn’t have to, your mother was doing so well on her own!” the figure shouted back, mirth audible in his voice, and then he vanished.

“Who was that?” his mother demanded, craning her neck to look up.

“Nobody. Just some rubbernecker,” Brett replied, disgruntled. If he mentioned he’d seen Daredevil, there was no telling how his mother would react. She might even send him after the man to get his autograph, or worse, leave him alone with the snake while she chased after the vigilante, pen and paper in hand.

It was only when they were halfway to the Ross’s apartment that Bess suddenly asked, “If that was just some nobody-rubbernecker, how’d he know I was your mother?”

Thanks for reading and commenting, Anon, and you're absolutely right. Foggy's healing gift takes a lot out of him, in proportion to how bad the injuries are.

+++++

On Thursday, it was Foggy’s grandmother’s funeral. Matt tried to give him the entire day off, but Foggy felt guilty about having slept so much in the office that week, and went in for the morning anyway. Naturally, Matt was hurt, and naturally, Foggy healed him. To his delight, he didn’t fall asleep immediately afterwards, but he did feel distinctly lacking in energy until almost noon. It was an effort to even speak, let alone get anything done, but he muddled through. At his parents’ house, though, he discovered that his father had dropped a hammer on his head, and instead of going to the doctor, he had come home to wait for Foggy.

“Dad, how did you drop a hammer on your head?” Foggy asked.

“Just doing a little do-it-yourself around the store,” his father replied. He owned a hardware store, and some of Foggy’s cousins worked there, too. At least one of them had his eye on an eventual buy-out, but Foggy’s father showed no signs of even wanting to retire. “I was pounding in a nail above my head, hit my thumb, and just reacted, you know?”

The reaction had sent the claw-end of the hammer into his scalp. Foggy winced when he saw the blood staining the grey hairs dark red, and took his father’s hand in his. The healing went quickly.

“There, Edward, now go wash your hair quickly or we’ll be late,” Foggy’s mother chided.

“I’m sure Mom would understand,” his father muttered as he went off to the bathroom.

“Your mother might, but not everybody else would.” Foggy’s mom sighed, but then she glanced over to Foggy and smiled. “And how are you getting along?”

“Matt needs healing every day,” Foggy reported, sinking down onto the couch. His mother seated herself in her specially designated “Mom” armchair as he continued to speak. “I fall asleep in the office a lot. It’s embarrassing, but I can’t help it. I suppose Grandma was used to that sort of thing.”

“Oh, I remember quite a few times when a good healing would send her to bed for hours,” his mother smiled. “But Matt – why does he need it every day?”

Foggy shook his head, and tried not to lie to his mother, though it was a challenge. “To hear him tell it, he’s incredibly clumsy. Always tripping over something or walking into something.”

His mother frowned. “I never noticed. He never seems clumsy around us, far from it. And a few bruises shouldn’t take it out of you like that.”

Foggy shrugged. It wasn’t exactly his secret to tell, not that he didn’t trust his mother. But better to be safe than sorry. He tried to change the subject. “Mom—“

But his mother went on. “Does Matt have other friends besides you, Foggy? Anybody that could … you know … be abusing him?”

Foggy couldn’t help laughing at the idea. “Mom, believe me, nobody is abusing Matt.”

“And he’s not in … you know … that shady kind of relationship? Like Fifty Shades of Grey?”

“Mom, tell me you didn’t read that book,” Foggy begged, feeling his cheeks turn hot with sheer embarrassment. “Please, please, tell me you didn’t.”

“I haven’t read it,” she protested. “But I couldn’t help hearing all about it, even from people who should know better. Not that I’m naming any relatives.”

Foggy exhaled in relief. There were some things about parents that their children should never know. “Mom, I promise you, Matt is not in a BDSM relationship. He doesn’t even have a, um, romantic partner right now.”

He hesitated, then went on. “He, um, he thinks I don’t know, but he goes boxing. A kind of fight club. Please don’t tell anybody. Especially not those nameless relatives, okay?”

“Oh,” his mother replied, looking more relieved than Foggy felt. “Boxing. Okay.”

It was a good enough excuse that Foggy thought he could use it as a cover for a real question. “Mom, when I’m around him and he’s hurt, I can’t help wanting to heal him. It makes my hands tremble if I put it off too long! But every time I heal him, he goes back outside and gets hu-hit again. He used to take a few days off if he were really hurt—bruised, but now he doesn’t. I feel like I’m enabling him somehow, but I also can’t not heal him.”

“Oh, Foggy,” his mother sighed, then got up, sat down next to him, and pulled him in for a hug. “Sometimes you have to let people make their own decisions.”

“Yeah, but what if he gets killed one day and I could have prevented it just by not using my gift? Course I’d have to avoid him somehow to do that, but … what if?”

“I don’t know, Foggy,” his mother admitted. “I don’t think I’ve ever been in a situation like that before. I’ve always tried to live my life by doing what I thought was right at the time, and that’s the only advice I can give you.”

“Well, that doesn’t help,” Foggy grumbled.

“I know that your grandmother always tried to heal everybody who asked, everybody who needed it,” his mother went on. “Even your Uncle Ray, though she told me a time or two that she knew he never would change his lifestyle.”

“Maybe she couldn’t fight the gift, either,” Foggy said.

“Maybe. Or maybe she knew that you can’t influence what people do with what you give them. I think she said something once about being a cheerful giver, and not caring about anything else.”

“Hmm.” Then Foggy remembered what he’d originally been about to ask. ”Speaking of the gift, Mom, do you know if Grandma could heal herself?”

“I know she could heal faster, but not instantly, not like when she could heal others,” his mother replied. “She had to sleep on it, sometimes up to three nights, I think she said once.”

“Well, that’s good to know.” Foggy closed his eyes. He woke up three hours later when his parents got home, only to discover he’d missed not only the funeral itself, but also the lunch wake. As he ate the contents of the doggy bag his mother had been kind enough to request for him, he decided that he had to make some changes or his healing gift was going to ruin his life. And those changes had to start with Matt. Fortunately, there was still time for Foggy to get over to the office and talk to him, even do some work while he was there.
Full of energy and determination, he set off, rehearsing in his mind how he was going to ask Matt to come around to his place every night after he’d been out Daredeviling, so that Foggy could heal him and still get some sleep before work. Before he reached the office, though, a man swung out of a coffee shop as he passed and called out, “Foggy Nelson!”

“Frankie? Frankie McMenemin?” Foggy asked, doing a complete double take. “Whoa, you know, I thought you died a couple of years ago, but I must have got you mixed up with one of my other cousins. Good to see you again, man!”

“Good to see you, too!” Frankie replied, equally hearty. Like Foggy, he was wearing a suit, as though he went to work in an office every day, though the Frankie that Foggy knew had worked in casual clothes in the home repairs business. But they’d been out of touch for a couple of years, and anything could have happened in the meantime. Now, Frankie held out a cup. “Hey, I’d like to talk to you if you’ve got a moment, or we can walk and talk at the same time. I even got you a latte, if you want.”

“Sure, why not?” Foggy took the cup, but as he sipped, he found himself glancing over at Frankie and trying to remember the name of his relative who had died of a brain aneurysm. No matter how often he ran through his list of known relatives, though, his mind kept coming back to Frankie. And yet the man was right here, obviously alive and well. Weird.

“So, what’s new with you? How’s the law business?” Frankie asked.

“Hey, it’s great, you might have heard that I’ve got my own practice now,” Foggy said, taking another sip. The latte was a bit sweeter than he usually took, but it tasted good. “With a friend of my mine from college. Nelson and Murdock, Attorneys at Law. What about you? You’ve moved up from drywalling with your brother and now you need some legal advice or something?”

“Actually, I was more interested in your healing gift. The word on the grapevine is, Grandma Nelson gave it over to you, yeah?”

“Oh, yeah, that’s right. I’m still getting used to it. But I can tell you’re not hurt. You don’t even have a headache.”

Frankie smiled quickly in a creepy kind of way that Foggy didn’t remember ever seeing on him. “No, I’m not hurt. But I kinda wanted to ask you a favour, if you could heal somebody for me?”

“Yeah, sure,” Foggy replied.

“Great! I knew you wouldn’t turn me down. Can you do it now? Or are you on your way back to the office?”

“Well, officially, I’ve got the day off …” Foggy considered, and mentally rearranged his plans. “I guess I can do it now, yeah.”

“Great,” Frankie said again.

“Is it a guy or a girl? What’s wrong with them?”

“He’s been pretty badly beaten up,” Frankie said. “Think you can manage that?”

“You know, I think I can,” Foggy said, or rather, mumbled, because suddenly, all his muscles were turning weak and nonresponsive, and everything around him was starting to spin and go dark.

+++++

He opened his eyes, shut them, then opened them again and sat up, looking around wildly. What the hell was he doing on a mattress in what looked like part of an abandoned warehouse? And why was Frankie sitting crosslegged on the floor next to him?

“What the hell?” he croaked. His mouth was dry, and he rubbed his tongue against the roof of his mouth before trying again. “Where are we?”

“Hey, Foggy, you okay?” Frankie asked.

“Do I look okay?” Foggy demanded. “What happened? Did you – did you put something in my coffee?”

Frankie smiled that smile again, the creepy one. “Yes, Foggy, I did.”

“What the fuck – why?”

Frankie extended a bottle of water towards him, but Foggy just looked from it to him until Frankie finally said, “The bottle is sealed, Foggy, I haven’t put anything in it, but fine, whatever. Anyway, I wanted to save the long explanation for later, after you’ve done the healing I asked you about.”

“How about a short explanation, then?” Foggy asked, and Frankie shrugged.

“Okay – have you ever watched Fringe?”

“Yeah, I watched Fringe, all five seasons,” Foggy replied, remembering. “I was so in love with Astrid. And the other Olivia.”

“So you know all about the alternate universe, where there’s a different version of you? You’re in that alternate universe now. Just like Fringe. Except completely different. And that’s the short explanation, now it’s time for the healing. Come on.”

As Foggy got to his feet, he couldn’t help asking the first dumb thing that came to mind. “So, do you guys have zeppelins here?”

“Completely different from the Fringe universe, remember?“ Frankie led him past some opaque plastic sheets hanging from the ceiling, into another section of the warehouse. Foggy saw the camera first, set up on a tripod, and glanced over to where it was pointing. He could already feel that there was an injured person there, as his Murdockmeter was rising steadily. The only surprise was when he saw that five men were loosely gathered around the motionless figure on the floor, some seated at a nearby table playing cards, others on chairs either talking or staring at their phones. It almost seemed like they were guarding the injured person, but from what, Foggy couldn’t tell.

Frankie pointed down and said, “Use your healing gift on him.”

Getting his first real glimpse of the man, Foggy whispered quietly, “Matt?”

“You know him?” Frankie asked, but Foggy didn’t answer, looking down at the unresponsive man. Was Francis telling the truth, was this a different Matt, or was it Foggy’s Matt? It looked exactly like Matt, as far as Foggy could tell under all the blood and the swelling. There was blood everywhere, all over his face, all over his clothes where something had sliced him open again and again. He looked even worse than when Foggy had found him half dead in his apartment after a fight with a ninja. His ankles were shackled together, but his hands were free, and Foggy quickly knelt down and reached for one of them. As fast and as smoothly as he could, he let his healing warmth flow into the other man’s skin.

And Matt jumped to his feet despite the shackles, twisting Foggy’s hand in his until there was an audible crack, then striking out and hitting Foggy in the face so hard that he went sprawling across the floor. He was vaguely aware of Matt somersaulting away from the man who tried to catch him, and then Matt’s boots both landed on his leg. Foggy didn’t hear the next crack so much as feel the explosion of agony.

When he became aware again, Frankie was crouching at his side. Still completely shocked, Foggy looked beyond him to where the men had pummeled Matt to the floor, pressing his head down. Now they were moving the shackles from his ankles to his wrists, and starting to wrestle his boots off. He was still fighting, or at least wriggling, but ineffectively. Sickened, Foggy made a motion to help, but even the slightest twitch of his arm muscles sent excruciating pain through his wrist.

Well, at least he knew that Frankie was telling the truth about the alternate universe, because this could never be the Matt that Foggy knew. His Matt would have known him by his heartbeat or his smell or something, even before he’d spoken, and he wouldn’t have attacked Foggy like that, let alone hurt him so badly. It was impossible for his best friend to even think of treating him like that. Matt hadn’t betrayed him, hadn’t hurt him. It was a different Matt. It had to be. Foggy glanced back to Frankie and managed to whisper, “What the –?”

“Do you know him?” Frankie asked again.

“Is that what … you’re asking!” Not even Foggy’s voice wanted to work right; it broke in the middle of the sentence and was otherwise weak and nasal. “No ‘are you all right, Foggy … do you need an ambulance?’ Because, yes, thanks, I do … I need a hospital … and lots of painkillers.”

“You’ve got the healing gift, you can heal yourself,” Frankie said.

“No, I can’t, so fuck you,” Foggy whispered. Matt cried out, and Foggy glanced over, although even the tiniest motion of his eyes made his head hurt. They’d moved Matt, dumped him on the table with several of them holding him down, and one of them hitting the soles of Matt’s bare feet with a cane. Matt screamed again, and Foggy closed his eyes. Even if it wasn’t his Matt, it still made Foggy as sick with empathy as though it were.

“Stop it!” Foggy wanted to shout, but the words only came out as a croak.

“But do you know him?” Frankie urged.

“No!” Even though it was a different Matt, even though this Matt had hurt him, Foggy was still determined to keep his secret. Now he tried again to speak and got his voice a bit louder. “No, I thought I did, but it wasn’t him. Completely different guy. Weird, huh?”

“Yeah. Weird,” Frankie agreed.

“You brought me in to heal him … now you’re just going to … beat him up again?” Foggy asked, and when Frankie didn’t answer, Foggy said again, “Fuck you.”

It rains, on Sunday morning, because of course it rains. Foggy sighs and walks over to his closet, from which he has to take out all of his jackets in order to find his biggest umbrella tucked away in a corner for some reason, despite the fact that it’s the one Foggy uses most often. It’s a disgustingly cute thing, all bright pink with big eyes painted on the designated front and ears attached at the top, that Candace gave him for birthday first year of law school, when Foggy once — by accident — complained in her presence about not having an umbrella big enough to fit both him and Matt under it. Candace — because she’s a jerk, how come they’re even related, no one in his immediate family reaches quite that level of gleeful assholery, she must have taken after someone from a way farther generation — laughed for an hour straight about Foggy being the designated umbrella-carrier in this new relationship, and then gifted him that four months later.

Candace lives under the illusion that she’s just so quirky and funny and charming. She’s none of those things.

The umbrella is big enough to fit both him and Matt, though.

It's a shame that it had to rain, Foggy muses as he walks to Matt's. Matt lives pretty much on the opposite side of Hell's Kitchen from him, but it only makes for a ten-minute-long walk, God bless the size of their neighbourhood. Grams lives further away, in Harlem, half an hour by subway, and absolutely refuses to leave. That was Joy Connor for you, worse yet than her grandson and it was Foggy who was called 'stubborn'. Joy Connor has lived in Harlem since she moved to New York in the 60s, she survived the riots, the crime and even the Hulk, and was not going to leave her home until the day she died, no matter how much worry she caused her daughter. Or at least that's what she claimed.

Foggy didn't complain; with his parents — well, his dad, he was the one who could cook actual food in this family, mum was only good for pastries — holed up in Trenton, the fact that Grams and her splendid cooking skills were a mere trip on the C line away was a blessing, some times. Joy Connor living in Harlem and willing to cook for her only grandson whenever he called were one of the reasons Foggy and Matt didn't starve to death during their second year.

She had them over for dinner a lot during that year. And she adored Matt.

Foggy knocks on Matt's door and waits for him to open. He has a spare key now — insisted that he should, for emergencies, and the next day Matt handed him a complete set, lips pursed, expression tight, no comment — but he's not going to just start letting himself in, hello, he knows what privacy means, not like a certain someone who seems to think that because he can open Foggy's living room window from the fire escape, he should every time a fancy strikes.

"Ready?" Foggy asks cheerfully when Matt cracks the door open.

Matt lets him in. "Yeah," he says. "I just need to grab our present, wait a moment..."

He disappears through the still broken door leading to his bedroom. Foggy looks around, taking in the changes, and realises that he hasn't stepped into Matt's apartment since the day he found out about Matt's after-hours activities. The knowledge that the last time he was here, he did everything he could to hurt his best friend sits ill with him, twists his insides into knots of disgust and shame.

"You alright?" Matt's voice comes from the bedroom. "Your heartbeat spiked."

"I'm fine," Foggy lies and Matt tactfully doesn't call him out on it. "Nice table."

There is indeed a new coffee table, between two armchairs and a sofa that's also new. The old one was probably blood-stained beyond saving. Foggy wonders, for a moment, about how Matt got rid of it. What did he tell the crew that came to pick the old one up? Did he try to claim that it was spilt wine? Matt would.

"Thanks." Matt appears in the bedroom doorway holding his cane in one hand, a slim velvet box in the other. It's bright red. Foggy wonders if the shop assistant informed Matt of that. "Karen helped me pick it."

"That explains why it's nice," Foggy jokes, and the corner of Matt's mouth tugs upwards. "You never told me what happened to the old one."

It immediately falls back down and Matt purses his lips, thins them almost to the point of non-existence. Well then. Foggy's not getting an answer to that today. Instead he extends his hand and takes the box from Matt, puts it into his bag, and gestures at the door. "Shall we? We need to catch the next train unless we want to be late and give Mum another reason to kill me."

"Just you?"

"Please, she loves you too much. Me? Pff. She has Cande as the back-up kid, while you're irreplaceable."

That at least makes Matt smile again.

***

They manage to catch the next C train and settle comfortably — or as comfortably as you can get on public transport — for a half-an-hour-long journey to Harlem. Matt scoops close to Foggy, presses to his side, and puts his head on Foggy's shoulder. That's--he doesn't do that, usually. It's weird.

Foggy lets him.

He's always known about Matt's particular brand of distaste for the subway, but now he had the context for it and knew why. It wasn't claustrophobia, as he assumed initially, though he was fairly certain that was a contributing factor. But with Matt's heightened senses the subway must be hell: the smells, the noise, all those people crammed in one small confined space. Foggy didn't like the subway for those reasons, so it stood to think that Matt would hate it and be overwhelmed by it.

If it helps him to put his head on his friend's shoulder, Foggy wasn't about to deny him that. He rather preferred to think that Matt doing that showed that Matt trusted him to understand.

And he did. Sort of. Tried to, at the very least, and therefore no one should criticise him for it.

He rests his cheek against the top of Matt's mop of damp dark hair, already curling at the end — seriously, Matt's hair is ridiculous, Foggy has witnessed it making a hairdresser cry — and takes Matt's hand in his. Turns it over, so that they're palm to palm. "You don't look well," he murmurs. It's true enough, but has less to do with injuries — Matt doesn't have a lot of those, not in visible places at least, and the ones he has are old and yellowish — and more with the general look of a person who's not well-rested. "Long night?"

He hopes the answer is 'no' and for once someone must love him, because Matt sighs and says "No." Foggy feels good for about three seconds before Matt adds, "just... Couldn't sleep. Yesterday."

Which might have something to do with Foggy reading him all his files and research notes. And fuck, Foggy should have known it was a bad idea. Matt asked him to, so what. Matt didn't have the best instincts when it came to self-care and self-preservation, and was self-destructive enough to ask for something that could possibly fuck with his already crap mental state. It was Foggy's job to know better.

He was really bad at his job.

"Then it's a good thing there will be pie," Foggy tells him. "I have it on good authority that Grams made her famous pecan pie."

There is pie at Grams' house, a fact of which Matt informs him as they stand in front of Grams' door, waiting to be let in.

"It's ridiculous that you can smell that," Foggy murmurs.

"There's also tomato soup and I think there will be your grandmother's cheese and ham pancakes," Matt adds, grinning.

Foggy shakes his head fondly. "You're showing off."

Matt opens his mouth to say something, he's frowning and his fingers tap-tap a rhythm on his cane, but he doesn't, in the end, closes his mouth as Grams' door opens and they're faced with Grams in all her jeans-and-leather-clad glory.

"Frannie!" she exclaims and Foggy winces. She's one of only two people in his whole family that refuses to stop calling him that, and the other person is so irrelevant that it's not even worth remembering. "Oh, and Matthew, I'm so glad that you've made it."

She steps closer to them and throws her arms out, wraps one around the respective necks of each of them, and places one kiss first to Foggy's, then to Matt's temple.

"Thank you for inviting me, Mrs. Connor," Matt says once Grams lets him go. His cheeks are already way past pink. If this trend keeps up with both of Foggy's parents, Matt's going to end up red as a beetroot in seven minutes tops.

"Pff," Grams waves a hand dismissively, "you don't need to be invited, Matthew, you're practically family. You would be if Frannie here--"

"Happy birthday, Grams," Foggy interrupts her with the wishes, delivered perhaps a bit more forcefully than they ought to be. He fishes for the velvet box in his bag and takes it out. "We got something for you."

Grams takes the box. "That's a first time I was given a present in the doorway, but thank you, darlings, still." She finally steps back into the house and lets them in. "I'll open it after dinner, with the rest of the presents."

"Sure thing, Grams," Foggy says at the same time as Matt's "I hope you like this, Mrs. Connor".

Grams pats Matt's cheek. "Someone here has good manners," she says as she walks past them towards the living room, all the while glaring daggers at Foggy. Foggy only rolls his eyes. Grams' death stare stopped having an impact when he was a junior in high school.

"Boys!"

Anna Nelson bursts into the hall from the kitchen and charges at them. She's wearing an apron and her hands look like they're covered in flour — no, they're definitely covered in flour, she has some smudged on her left cheek too — and it still doesn't stop her from attempting to hug them to death. Correction, to hug Matt to death, because it's Matt that Anna envelopes in a tight hug and kisses on the forehead while Foggy stands behind them, tapping his foot like a bored and forgotten third wheel.

"Oh, Matty, hello." Anna smiles and cups Matt's cheeks, smearing the flour on them in the process. "It's so good to see you, sweetheart, it's been so long that I was beginning to worry that Franklin was keeping you away."

Matt stammers and doesn't manage to reply coherently. Beetroot level achieved, and he hasn't even said 'hello' to Foggy's dad yet.

"Hi, mum," Foggy waves at Anna behind Matt's back. "This is your son, Franklin Phillip, remember me? It's lovely to see you too, by the way."

Anna rolls her eyes. "I've seen you last week, Foggy. Matt I haven't seen in more than three months, let me enjoy the moment." She smiles at Matt again, despite knowing that Matt can't see it. But Matt has to somehow sense it, because he smiles back. He always smiles back at Anna, never misses a single smile, and it doesn't happen with anyone else, ever. Foggy's starting to wonder if his mother and Matt have some weird psychic connection going on. It would explain so much.

Anna eventually gets round to pecking Foggy on a cheek. But that's it, that's all Foggy gets. Anna truly does love Matt most. "I wouldn't go to the living room," she tells them when Matt takes Foggy's arm and Foggy starts them towards said room. "Unless you want to get stuck until dinner with Grams' hunting club friends."

They definitely don’t want to get stuck with Grams’ hunting club friends until dinner. Those are all elderly ladies, some of which Grams knows from way back when she used to live in the most Lovecraftian part of Massachusetts. Grams took him there for holiday once, when he was ten; they met up with some of Grams friends and their equally terrified grandkids, and it was hell. Still the creepiest moment of Foggy’s life.

“That’s not a good idea,” Foggy says slowly, thinking about Grams creepy hunting friends and their now grown-up grandkids. Grams and her friends would probably end up trying to either set him and Matt up with some of those grandkids — and they’re mostly really nice people, Foggy is Facebook friends with more than a half of them — or trying to convince them that spending two weeks a year in wilderness, in the middle of nothing, and having to hunt for your own food was good for the soul.

He knows which one Matt would consider worse.

“Candace is hiding upstairs,” Anna says, pointing at the staircase.

“And where’s dad?”

Anna’s lips twitch. “Mrs. Gershwin said there wasn’t enough beer and he volunteered to go and buy more,” she says. “I doubt he’ll be back within the next hour. You know that Grams’ friends creep him out.”

“Him and me both,” Foggy murmurs. He turns to Matt and tugs at his sleeve. “Come on,” he says. “Upstairs. It’s better to suffer Cande than the hunting club.”

They find Candace in the spare bedroom that Grams turned into a mini-library/study. It’s easily the nicest room in the whole house and Foggy loved to hide in here, surrounded by all the books, when he was younger. Even when he was Candace’s age, he’d still hole himself up here with a vacuum flask full of cocoa and go through Grams’ Stephen King collection.

Candace is not a Stephen King fan. She’s sitting with her knees bent on the windowsill, head bent over something that, judging by the cover that Foggy is able to peek at at this angle, is The Big Book of Pain that Grams got her for Christmas two years ago.

“Do you have some sort of a torture kink?” Foggy asks and that snaps Candace out of her little torture world. She raises her head and grins at them both when she notices them standing in the doorway.

“Mere curiosity,” she says, closing the book. “I’m thinking about going for pathology, it might be useful.”

Foggy makes a disgusted face. “Ugh, pathology. Do yourself a favour and choose something else, Cande, I’m saying this as a concerned older brother. Perhaps a fitness instructor? Can’t let all that cheerleading go to waste.”

She gives him the middle finger. Next to Foggy, Matt covers his mouth and coughs awkwardly, and that cough sounds more as if Matt was choking on a hot potato or was desperately trying not to laugh. It occurs to Foggy just then that Matt has just witnessed Foggy’s baby sister flipping him off and could actually see it. Perfect.

“Hi, Matt,” Candace greets Matt warmly. She doesn’t blush nor tugs at her hair with her eyes lowered, so Foggy takes it to mean that she truly is over the crush-on-brother’s-best-friend phase of her teen years. Jesus, they really grow up so fast.

“Hi, Candace.”

“Did you get ambushed by the hunting club ladies?”

“Nah.” Foggy shakes his head and settles down on the floor close to his sister, with his back against the half-wall. He pushes at the nearest chair with his foot and it skids closer to Matt, who nods his thanks and sits down as well. “We escaped before they swarmed us.”

“Lucky you.” Candace closes the book. “They grabbed me before dad told me to go and hide here. Mrs. Palomas’ oldest grandson just got divorced, she handed me six pictures of him and said that he’s a nice boy.”

“Stewie?” Foggy asks, to which Candace nods. “But he’s my age.”

Candace nods again. “That’s what I told her, that it’d be like going on a date with an ancient relic.” Matt laughs again. Traitor. And Cande, the asshole.

“Jerk,” Foggy mutters.

“Doof,” Candace shoots back. “Anyway, I told Mrs. Palomas that I’m currently not interested, and even if I were, it wouldn’t be in Stewie, I still remember that time he and you--“

“Okay, thank you for that,” Foggy interrupts her when he notices that Matt cocked his head in a manner that usually means that he’s interested. Tough luck, Foggy and Stewie’s weird adventures will have to remain a mystery for now. “How’s Tom?”

“Tom who?”

Foggy frowns. Was it Tim? No. He’s pretty sure Cande’s boyfriend was named Tom. “Tom, your boyfriend Tom. That Tom.”

“Oh.” Candace waves her hand. “Dumped his ass. He revealed himself to be a bigoted racist homophobe, I ain’t got time for someone like that. My youth’s precious, I’m not wasting it on him.”

“Good for you!” Foggy raises his hand and Candace gives him a high-five. She’ll be fine in college. And if she’s not, Matt’ll probably take it upon himself to make sure that she is if he finds out. Which probably won’t end well, for anyone involved, so Foggy should make sure that Matt doesn’t find out.

Matt’s frowning. “What?” Foggy asks.

The frown deepens. “I think your mum’s calling you.”

He says it the exact same moment Anna yells, most likely from the stairs, “FRANKLIN NELSON! COME HERE THIS INSTANT!”

Candace snickers. “Yeah, Foggy, your mum’s calling you.”

Foggy gets up with a groan. “Assholes, the lot of you.”

He exits the study and goes downstairs, where he barely manages not to collide with Mrs. Gershwin and her beer bottle. He excuses himself and darts into the relative safety of Grams’ kitchen, which incidentally is the second-largest room in the whole house. Life priorities according to Joy Connor.

“What?” he asks his mother.

Anna doesn’t look amused. “I’ve been calling you.”

“Well, excuse me, I’ve only been catching up with the one family member that seems happy to see me.” Anna rolls her eyes and turns back towards the counter. “So. Tom?”

“Ugh.” Anna shudders. “Don’t even remind me of that kid. I’m so glad your sister was smart enough to dump his sorry ass.”

Foggy shoves hands into the pockets of his jeans. “She wasn’t smart enough not to date him in the first place.”

Anna takes two mugs out of the overhead cupboard and fills them with drinks. “Not everyone can have such a good taste when it comes to partners as you do,” she says, casually.

“Yeah,” Foggy agrees before the whole meaning of that sentence dawns on him. Good taste? What? He squints his eyes. “You never liked Marci.”

She somehow manages to fit six pistachio cupcakes on the tiniest plate Foggy’s ever seen. “Marci’s an exception.”

“You weren’t overly fond of Debs either.”

She shrugs and turns back to him, and finally takes a proper look at him. She must not like what she saw, because she frowns. “Are you alright, honey?” she asks, concerned. “You look--pale.”

That would be the result of months of worry about Matt and the more recent hard work and sleepless nights and coffee and anger that went into his research. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” Anna presses. “Perhaps something’s wrong, when was the last time--“

“I’m fine, mum.”

“Franklin, and what if it’s b--“

“Mum,” Foggy interrupts her. Why do people keep insisting on trying to talk to him about things he doesn’t want to talk about. “I have an appointment scheduled for next month. I’m fine, just tired, we have lots of work. Can we please not talk about this here, now? Grams has guests.”

She squints. “Foggy, everyone here--“

“Not everyone.”

She squints harder. And then it hits her, what he means, and her eyes widen in surprise. “Franklin,” she hisses, “are you lying to him?”

Foggy huffs, irritated. “I’m not lying, mum, I just never said, it’s never been relevant--“

“So you’re waiting for it to become relevant?” she carries on in that hissing tone. “That’s ridiculous, Franklin, I’m disappointed--“

“It was never important, and Matt has worse problems anyway.” If only she knew just how much worse. “Can we argue about this later, when there aren’t twenty people around to overhear?”

“Franklin--“

“Mother. Seriously. Later.”

“She sighs dramatically and raises her hands in defeat. “Fine,” she snaps. She turns to the counter, picks the mugs and hands them to him. “Honey rose tea, for you and Matt.” She turns back again and takes the tiny plate. “And cupcakes for the three of you.”

“Thanks, mum.”

She waves her hand. “Just go.”

He balances the plate full of cupcakes on top of one of the mugs and manages to get it upstairs without dropping anything, thank God for the practice he had while working part-time at a restaurant while in high school.

“Mum sends her love in the form of baked goods,” he announces loudly as he pushes the door open and walks back into the study. He’s greeted by two cut-off giggles. Matt moved closer to Candace, and they’re sitting with their heads bowed towards each other and are laughing under their breaths. Great. Just great.

“Did you and Stewie Morris really dress up as Sailor Moon characters for Halloween?” Matt asks. He’s trying to keep a straight face, he really is, so kudos for that.

“Yes we did,” Foggy admits and Matt cracks. Which is funny in itself, because Foggy’s not entirely sure Matt even knows what do the Sailor Moon costumes look like. “And it was awesome. I’m handing you a mug,” he says. “Honey rose tea, because mum likes you better.”

“Thanks,” Matt says and takes the mug. His fingers brush Foggy’s and he smiles. “Why Sailor Moon?”

Foggy shrugs. Matt probably expects an answer like ‘I lost a bet’ or ‘it was a dare’. It’s neither. “Because why the hell not?”

“Holy shit,” Candace says suddenly.

“Me being into anime is hardly a revelation, Cande,” Foggy says, rolling his eyes. But Candace’s not looking at him, or at Matt, even. She’s staring out of the window and at the street.

“It’s not that,” she breathes, and she’s pressing her face so close to the window that the glass fogs. “It’ just--I think--Dick’s here.”

Foggy frowns and moves closer to the window. “You mean great-uncle Richard? Isn’t he dead?”

“Not great-uncle Dick, he’s most definitely dead. It’s Grandpa Asshole.”

“No way,” Foggy breathes. He presses closer to Candace, to look out of the window as well. “It can’t be.”

“It is.”

“Grandpa Asshole?” Matt asks.

Foggy and Candace share a look. Right, Matt doesn’t know the story of Grandpa Asshole. Foggy waves his hand at Candace, giving her permission to share this story.

“So you know Grandfather Nelson, right?” is what she starts with. Matt nods. Of course he knows Grandfather Nelson, he went on family holiday with the Foggy and Cande during the summer break between years two and three, and he had the pleasure of meeting Grandfather Nelson and being subjected to his hardcore fishing lessons. “Well, people tend to have two grandfathers.”

“I’m aware,” Matt replies, clearly amused.

“Grandpa Asshole is Grams’ douchebag ex-husband,” Candace says and Foggy has to fight the urge to moan. She blew the story, like, for God’s sake, Candace, how could you blow it.

“See, Grams used to live in Massachusetts,” Foggy picks the story up, because clearly Candace is not to be trusted with it. “She had this husband. Weird guy, kept creepy company and would disappear for days on end into the woods or the mountains.”

“Okay.”

“So eventually Grams has had enough. She kicked the dude out, divorced him and moved to New York,” Foggy continues, skipping for now all the stories of Grandpa Ray teaching mum to punch people when she was four. He’ll fill Matt in later. “Ray disappeared completely for years and everyone thought that was the last they’d seen of him.”

“But bitch it wasn’t the last they’d seen of him,” Candace picks up. “Sadly. It’s a dark family secret, Matt. Grandpa Asshole pops up once every few years, appears out of the blue, annoys the hell out of half of us, offends the other half, and then disappears again. For example, he came to mum’s wedding. It almost resulted in the whole thing being called off.”

“Next time he shows up, I’m five,” Foggy says. “I think Grams threatened him with her hunting knives then, but I’m a bit fuzzy on the details.”

“Next time was when Foggy was twelve and I was three,” Candace chips in. “Ray comes over, saying that he was ‘in the neighbourhood’ for some reason--“

“It was before we moved to Trenton,” Foggy clarifies, “so at the time we were still living in Hell’s Kitchen.”

“--and offers to take us to the park. Mum was less than thrilled with the idea.”

“She pulled a shotgun on him.”

Matt’s jaw drops. “What?”

Candace laughs. “We shit you not, that’s my earliest memory, mum running after Ray with a shotgun. She still owned one, at the time. It was so badass.”

“Then Ray completely ignored us for the next, what, fifteen years? Eighteen. Eighteen years.”

“He called a few months back, before my birthday. Apparently something chased him to New York again.” Candace shrugs. “I don’t know what he wanted, I told him to fuck off and hang up.”

“He’s an evil, creepy guy that everyone hates,” Foggy sums up. “Never gave a single shit about us. In fact I’m fairly certain that he’s incapable of experiencing any higher emotion.”

“And he’s here, now,” Matt says.

“Yup,” Candace confirms.

“Apparently,” Foggy says. Something occurs to him. “Someone should probably go downstairs and check on mum and Grams. With dad still out on the prolonged beer run, there’s no one to make sure everyone leaves alive.”

“You’re older,” Candace notes, the ever-helpful Candace, “and heavier, you go.”

“You’ve seen Ray less times,” Foggy points out. “Plus all you’d need to do is call the cops, that doesn’t require you having such a tactical advantage over him.”

“He called me this year while you haven’t interacted with him in almost twenty years,” she bristles. And pouts. God damn that pout of hers. “We should rock, paper, scissors it.”

“Fine.”

They do. Foggy loses, because of course he loses. The universe doesn’t like him.

“How,” Foggy grumbles as he leaves the study. There’s a commotion downstairs. He can hear Mrs. Palomas cursing.

“You always use scissors first,” Matt tells him.

“No, I don’t.”

“You do,” Matt laughs. “And I’m blind. If I noticed that, your sister did too.”

“And it never occurred to you to maybe tell me about that?” Foggy asks and Matt snickers, presses his palm to his mouth to hide the giggle.

The voices coming from downstairs become louder as they move towards the staircase and walk down the stairs as quietly as they can.

“--not welcome in my house. Get out, Raymond.” That’s Grams, breaking out her most authoritative tone of voice. Go Grams.

Foggy’s one foot on the landing already, with Matt halfway down the stairs behind him, when Ray moves into their line of sight. Foggy’s, Foggy’s line of sight. Ray is--ass unimpressive as ever. Hair as white as always and in as much disarray, cane, glasses, clothes that have clearly seen better times. And that goddamn smirk that makes Foggy want to punch him every time he sees it. It’s the reason Foggy doesn’t smirk, goes either full-on smile or nothing at all: Foggy has the same expression when he tries to, his lips curve the same way Ray’s do, and Foggy already looks enough like Ray without having to add another layer of similarity by adopting the same mannerism. Foggy’s spent two years of his early teens practicing different expressions in front of a mirror, hoping to pick some that make him look as unlike Ray as humanly possible.

“What, I can’t wish my wife happy birthday?” Ray sneers, because he’s an absolute and utter asshole, God, Foggy hates him, Foggy hates him almost as much as he hates Stick. ‘Almost’ being the operative word here, because Stick is a miserable evil goddamn bastard while Ray is just--Ray is a douchebag and an asshole, was a crap and violent husband and even a worse father, but he never ascended to quite the same plane of evilness as Stick did.

“Ex-wife,” Grams spits out.

“Dad,” Anna says as she grabs the sleeve of Ray’s shirt, squeezes his arm “leave. Or I’ll call the police, I swear I will.”

“Stick,” Matt whispers behind Foggy, and he sounds gutted.

“What?” He heard wrong. Must have. Foggy turns his head towards Matt as he asks the question, and it almost dies on his lips. Matt’s pale and he’s gripping the railing so hard that his knuckles have gone white.

“Stick,” Matt repeats, louder.

There are two other people, beside Foggy — who feels as if someone just snatched the floor from under his feet — that react to that one word. Grams turns her head towards Matt and her expression clouds with anger and suspicion, and Ray… Ray grins.

“Matt,” he says with fake cheer in his voice, “I didn’t expect to see you here, kid.”

He wrenches his arm out of Anna’s grip, nods Grams goodbye and leaves, slamming the door shut on his way out.

The absolute silence that settled in the hallway lasts about a minute. The same minute it takes Foggy to jump over that last step, make it to the door and out, runs after Ray, heedless of Anna’s perplexed calls.

Stick, Stick, Stick, is the only thought that’s clear to him, the only thing he can focus on. I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you, I’ll fucking kill you.

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Page 176 of 186

Prompt Post #5

Re: Foggy takes over Fisk's empire and becomes Kingpin thing

Re: FILL: In the Absence of St. Germaine (4/?)

Re: FILL: In the Absence of St. Germaine (4/?)

Re: Foggy takes over Fisk's empire and becomes Kingpin thing 2

Re: FILL: In the Absence of St. Germaine (4/?)

FILL (girl!Brett/everyone): five awkward kisses (and one hot one)

Re: Fill: 6/? Foggy has a run in with an alternative version of Daredevil

Re: Foggy takes over Fisk's empire and becomes Kingpin thing 2

Re: Fill: A Cheerful Giver, Part 1

Re: minifill 3: daredevil con more like #karencon2k15

Fill: A Cheerful Giver, Part 2

Re: [fill] Matt/Foggy, homeless!Matt

Re: [fill] Matt/Foggy, homeless!Matt

Re: minifill 3: daredevil con more like #karencon2k15

Re: Fill: A Cheerful Giver, Part 2

Re: FILL: Migraines

Re: FILL: Matt the Caretaker

FILL: The Price of a Soul (8/?)

Re: FILL: The Price of a Soul (8/?)

FILL: The Price of a Soul (9/?)

Re: Fill: 6/? Foggy has a run in with an alternative version of Daredevil

Fill: Fanged Robbery, featuring Brett and Bess Mahoney

Fill: A Cheerful Giver, Part 3

Fill: nothing he can't endure [7/?]

Fill: nothing he can't endure [8/?]