daredevilkink | Prompt Post #5

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Prompt Post #5

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I love how Tony is the concerned one. He was a wild youngin' until he was 50</>
He knows what kids these days get up to

As the summer progressed, Franklin grew increasingly relieved and became convinced that his decision to come to stay with Rosalind had been the right one. He spent a great deal of his time being a constant presence at her side as she argued in court and made appearances on the Boston political and social scene. He enjoyed walking into a room with her and having all eyes turn to them, getting to be introduced as her son and be told how handsome he was, how polite. Loved the late nights spent with her bent over thick legal texts in her living room helping her find particular cases to reference and double-checking the work that her clerks and assistants prepared, knowing that she trusted him more than anyone else. And he could tell that Rosalind was appreciating having him there more than she expected.

He was surprised by how often she began to call him throughout the day to vent about a particular person in her office or ensure that he was where he was supposed to be. Suddenly she was more available to him and David began to act less as their go-between. Once, when she had been practically living in the office for a particularly long stretch of time, she even brought home a whole marble cheesecake and ate it with him at her coffee table at 3am, peppering him with questions about his SAT prep course, drivers-ed classes and fall plans. It took him ten minutes of watching her eat it for him to realize that she intended for him to have some too. She made a joke about him needing to do extra laps in the pool the next day to burn it off but otherwise didn't insult his weight or make him feel bad about it at all. It might have disturbed him if he wasn't so genuinely happy to spend the time with her.

Her case dragged on. Apparently, defending a man who spent so many years evading justice was no easy thing, and getting the media to view him as anything less than a criminal mastermind was even harder. Franklin overheard Rosalind call so many reporters, give so many interviews, and negotiate with so many experts, advisers and politicians that it made his head spin. But the case was expected to be wrapped up by early August, at which point she told him that they would head to Massachusetts for the rest of the summer and enjoy it in peace. He was looking forward to it. If he was already connecting with Rosalind on a deeper level than he ever had while he lived with his dad, his imagination ran wild with the possibilities when it was just the two of them. He felt like he was finally where he belonged.

He received at least one missed call on his cell phone every day. He assumed that they were from Anna and not his dad, but he knew that his sister might also be trying to reach him, wondering what had happened to him. He didn't care. Life was good. He was hopeful that when fall rolled around, Rosalind wouldn't ask him to leave. Why would she? They seemed to be enjoying each other's company.

His instincts seemed right when in late July, following the successful completion of his driver's test, he arrived back at the apartment to find Rosalind standing outside of the building on her phone leaning against the hood of a brand new sleek, black Volkswagen Jetta. She looked up when she saw him get out of the car, telling the person she was speaking to to hang on.

"Well, what do you think, darling? Not bad for your first ride, hmmm?" she asked him.

He didn't know what to say. "Wow," was all he could come up with. She smiled at him, a sly half-smile, but to Franklin it may as well have been a proud ear-to-ear grin, and threw him the keys. Then, she went back to her phone call and moved to head back into the building.

All Franklin could think about was the fact that she had to have known that nobody needs a car in New York City. She wanted him to stay.

The night had been long, and the party boring. Franklin just wanted to leave. His starched suit itched at his skin, and the string quartet's sedate and measured performance was acting like aural Ambien. He felt like he might pass out right there at the table. But, just as he felt his eyes closing, he jolted himself back awake and resumed eating his salad, double-checking to make sure that he had the right fork in his hand. Rosalind would definitely notice if he wasn't exercising all of the proper table manners expected from him at an event so stuffy.

He looked around at the other diners eating with him at the long table, craned his neck to see the chandelier above him and the high ceilings of the cavernous dining room. The assemblage of politicians, judges and church leaders around him chattered softly to one another, networking and gossiping. And next to him, at the head of the table, sat his mother, looking as in command as ever. Her client, former fugitive Michael Kelly, sat next to her, a free man exhibiting all the smugness that his triumph in court afforded him.

On the other side of his mother's client sat the only person at the party who Franklin was even remotely interested in, the only other person his own age in attendance. Her name was Alice Kelly, and she was the devoted daughter of his mother's client.

Franklin had never spoken to Alice, but he was entranced by the mysteriousness of the raven-haired, petite girl who he often saw at his mother's office or at the seemingly never-ending evenings of schmoozing and networking that Rosalind dragged him to.

Just days earlier, she had testified sweetly on the stand about her father's love of his family and how he could never have hurt a fly, let alone been the head of Boston's most infamous Irish crime syndicate. In court, she had cried and begged the jury to have mercy on the man who had spent so long on the run because of accusations that weren't true, who had been unable to raise her and be there for her like every father should. The performance had been inspired. Franklin had watched it from the back row of the courtroom, enraptured by her transformation into such a picture of sweet virginal innocence as he pictured the steely, calculated young woman he knew from his conversations with his mother that she was. He considered her carefully as they locked eyes across the table.

She smiled coyly at him, quickly looking away when Rosalind caught them noticing each other.

Franklin felt the fury of his mother as she stared him down, warning him away from the object of his attention.

He knew that his mother probably knew best in this case, but as content as he was he was missing the company of anyone else his own age. Marci's father had relapsed again which made her busy with her own family drama. And he didn't have any other friends who he could call to come visit him in Boston.

When the dinner ended, the crowd began to mingle and a band began to play nearby. Franklin stood next to his mother until she became embroiled in a political conversation with a colleague and used the opportunity to slip away.

He was hovering near the bar wishing he was old enough to order a drink when he heard Alice approach.

"Hey," she said. "Franklin, right? Rosalind's son?"

"Yeah," he said. "Nice job. Testifying, I mean. I was there. You really made a big difference. The jury loved you." She was really beautiful and her attention was so focused on him that it was making him nervous.

"Thanks," she said. "Do you want to get out of here?" she asked.

"What?" Franklin asked, surprised.

"I saw a coat room on the way in. I bet nobody will even notice that we're gone. Are you interested? You can't tell me you'd rather hang out here?" she asked him.

"No," he said. "You're right. Sure. Why not?"

He followed her out, keeping one eye on Rosalind to make sure she was focused on her own conversation.

The second that the door was closed to the coat room, before they even switched the light on, Alice was on top of him, kissing him with a ferocity that nearly knocked him over. It surprised him, but he went with it and let her take the lead. Soon the two of them were panting and sweating on a pile of expensive furs.

"Oooookay," Foggy said, when it was over. "That was..." He tried to catch his breath.

"It was alright," said Alice. "I needed it though. You have no idea how hard it's been standing next to my dad for the last few weeks and trying to look happy about it."

"Yeah?" he asked.

"Well, yeah," she said. "You must get it. You can't possibly love hanging around your mom all the time? They're such assholes."

"Totally!" Franklin said halfheartedly, shaking his head emphatically to drive home the point. "They're awful. Soooo...?" he asked, hoping that she would tell him what should happen next. Despite his on again/off again relationship with Marci, he had never exactly been a lady-killer.

"So," she said. "We should get back in there. But we'll see each other again soon."

"We will?" he asked.

"Yeah," Alice told him. "My dad and I are coming out to stay with you guys for the rest of the summer. Didn't your mom tell you?"

"Yeah!" Franklin said, lying. "Right. She did. That's awesome!"

Alice just giggled and shook her head at him before standing up to find her underwear.

Franklin laid his head back down on the coat underneath him as she left and reflected on how perfect everything was.

This is adorable all of it so much love!!!

Also ARTIST ANNONS 'Matt wearing reindeer antlers, hugging the poinsettia, and crying like it's his long-lost puppy.' someone needs to get on this right here!!!I wish I could count myself among ur greatness but alas I cant art so please PLEASE someone needs to make this a real thing!!!!

This is the kind Of perfect and wonderful fluff that makes my heart sing and causes me to make undignified to squeaky noises. So very much love for bb matt and foggy!!!!

nayrt

Wow, I loved this. And I totally imagined Matt doing crimefighting Black Widow style to get so good at seduction.

This was delightful. Peter's caring for Matt, their nonchalant affection. The sex seemed a little out of nowhere, but was written very hot.

As soon as the bathroom door closes, Foggy can smell the blood -- Matt's blood. It's fresher than Foggy's busted nose and not so crusty-sweet. Some of it might not even be Matt's. He's upright, limping maybe but ambulatory. Foggy pries his eyelids open, like wrenching up an old-school garage door, and feels a fresh throb of pain.

Matt must not know this place that well; he's still putting out a hand to feel for the edge of the sink or the murky outline of the radiator. This apartment is nearly empty; there's little in it to suggest it's anybody's permanent year-round dwelling, but what's there doesn't seem overtly out of place. Foggy keeps looking, his squinting eyes keep skittering around the baseboards and the taped-up windows. It's nearly pitch-black in here, except for-- a freaking night light plugged in at the baseboard, a lonely rectangle of chemical blue. He doesn't know what he expects to see.

Whatever it is Matt senses, it isn't pretty.

"Jesus, Foggy. Jesus, oh--"

For a long moment speech is impossible, and Matt is just standing there taller than life in the blue near-dark. Foggy presses his working wrist against his more operational eye socket, feeling the tenderness like a missing tooth.

"How bad is it?" Then again, stupidly, because Murdock hasn't answered and he's not even sure he heard him trying to talk around a mouthful of spit and sore gums -- "Is it bad? Matt, are you bleeding? I think you're bleeding."

"Not bad. But you're alright. You're safe now."

"Me? What about you?" How many times has Matt been bleeding and Foggy hasn't noticed? Bleeding under his clothes?

"Safe is a relative term." He's trying for a quip, a charming Matt-icism, but it makes Foggy flinch. "It's handled."

Handled. Foggy is floating, a little island of pain -- but he's not there any more, and he could cry, he's lying on tile and not laminate tabletop, Matt is here.

One thought snags like a broken tooth.

"Where's Karen? What happened to Karen?" Foggy tries to sit up, which is stupid and instantly upgrades each distinct unpleasant sensation from discomfort to kill-me-now. Matt guides him back against the porcelain.

"Just stay put, okay? You have a concussion."

Foggy exhales sharply between the gaps in his teeth. He's dirty and he stinks and he's not wearing pants; Matt needs to be nowhere near him right now. It's just like freshman year. "Yeah, that makes sense. Was that your friend who came along with the pen light, because--"

"Yeah, she won't do that again. You can hear me alright?"

"Clear as a bell," Foggy says, feeling a slimy web of blood migrate out from between his teeth. "I think I just took a bad hit."

Already he can't remember. He can't remember, which makes him next to useless. Even trying to think about last night is like sweeping up broken glass.

Matt settles down in a cloud of painful earnestness, depositing a plastic bag of ice wrapped in a dishtowel. "Don't talk. You've got a broken cheekbone -- Claire doesn't think you'll need surgery, but you've got a hell of a black eye."

The side of his face is swollen like a plum; he can feel it. It encroaches onto his vision a little, but all things considered given that anything brighter than basically no light at all makes him want to start vomiting again and never stop, it's okay. He's fine, he's all right. He's gotten knocked around a little before. One time he got elbowed in the face playing touch football and it hurt worse than this. Foggy tries to inventory the injuries he can tell Matt about. His head, his shoulder. His whole face, which has got to be ugly judging by the way Matt sucks in a breath and shifts on his feet every time he tries looking him in the face, but Foggy's whole face was a work in progress to start with. In another 12 hours he'll be needing to shave.

"I think I fucked up my hand," is what he settles on. His hand is bound up uselessly, close to his body, and he still feels the phantom of somebody else's grip.

"Claire jimmied everything back into place. You just need to keep it immobilized for now."

Foggy cautiously swallows a mouthful of saliva before trying to talk again. "Jimmied? Is that a technical term?" The press of the swelling would be painful on its own, but at least some of what Claire the Friendly Nurse had him dry-swallow earlier must be taking, because it's only a dull pain now, like a bruise and not like, say, a broken finger.

"Until you can get an x-ray, it's the next best thing."

"Matt, what the hell am I going to tell somebody at a hospital?" It's impossible not to raise his voice a little and immediately Foggy regrets it.

Matt lifts his chin in an approximation of a shrug. "Car door?"

"Did it bounce off my hand and hit me in the face?"

"Stranger things have happened, Foggy."

Like Matt and his car accident, Matt and his mylar balloon with a monkey on it. That much is reassuring, in the sea of shifting variables: it can't be that bad, because Matt's had it worse. He doesn't have any broken ribs. He doesn't have a popped lung or a broken arm or a busted eardrum.

The pit of his stomach hurts, like something is broken in there, like something is bruised. The sensation of something torn located not far off makes a nice counterpoint to it, and both of them combined present a persuasive reason not to get up and wobble away.

"Where's Karen?"

"Karen's fine. Karen's safe. What the hell happened, Foggy?"

Someone else pushes through the doorway, indistinct in the blotchy dark until the figure's close enough to be in approximate focus. Somebody wearing white. Claire holds out a hand, lets it press against Matt's chest in an eloquent gesture of forbidding. "I'm going to need you to step into the other room for a while."

Matt takes the hint.

*

"Nice place you got here," Foggy says, slippery with weird detachment as the pills settle in his stomach and Claire tugs his waistband down, slides his pants out from beneath him. "Very modern. Lots of charm."

"It's not my place. I'm just borrowing it for a little while from a friend."

"A friend who knows about your secret life of crime?"

She sucks a little breath between her teeth. "Just a friend. But yes."

Claire's still in her pyjamas, underneath the oversized white sweatshirt shucked up to her elbows. She has steady hands, and she's still really pretty, even like this -- which hadn't jumped out at him that first meeting on the night with Matt, because he'd had bigger things on his mind then -- like now he doesn't, like this isn't some confusing brute-force effort to short circuit his brain into not thinking. But she's pretty and she's all business and she smells nice, which makes sense because this must be her bathroom.

Foggy lets his brain go blank, empty like an empty room as he braces. Claire is tearing the packaging off a swab, rustling around in a gallon plastic bag for a wad of cotton.

"How many guys?"

Foggy's sore tongue goes to make the syllables I can't remember, but he stops. Everything is fogged and dim and gray, but he can remember. That much is concrete. Laid out plain, like the details in a brief. How many bad guys? How many doers?

"One." Just one. He's pretty sure.

Claire doesn't tsk or exhale, but when she speaks again her voice is brusque and tight. "He used a condom?"

"Yeah."

Foggy remembers that.

Then, not like a doctor but like a friend: "Fuck. I'm sorry, Foggy. I really am."

Foggy doesn't know if that's dismay at this state of affairs, or just a general comment on it, on the perpetrator, on Fisk. Foggy doesn't know if that basic fact is good or bad. It could have been worse.

What happens after that could certainly be worse.

*
*
*

Claire's hands are steady; she has small, steady hands. When Foggy's voice finally comes unstuck in his throat it isn't much more than an empty rasp. "Don't tell Matt."

"I'm not going to tell anybody unless you want me to. In which case I'm more than willing to say how I found you."

His eyes are scabbed shut with salt. "Great."

"If you press charges, you're going to need to get checked out in a hospital. I can't do that here."

"I'm not pressing charges for this, all right? Why, why would I stand in a courtroom and--"

"I get it, okay. Believe me, I get it. You're going to want to talk to somebody about this. But it doesn't have to be Matt."

*

Foggy Nelson's pants are in a paper bag in the fridge so Matt can't smell them quite as well. The laundry room's all the way in the basement and no way is Claire making that haul alone, or Foggy with her. From the waist down he's 75% beach towels and little sticky wing bandages, draped for modesty in a festive throw blanket and a sheet -- why couldn't he just get shot? There would be dignity in getting shot.

The swelling darkness presses in on everything, it sucks him down like a whirlpool. Part of him feels like he should call his mom. He's not sure what he'd tell his mom, but these are the times you're supposed to call your mom. Not when you can't move your jaw without it clicking.

In the nauseating not-light from the window, Matt's unshaven face is white as a sheet. Foggy tries to focus on it, but can't fight through the blear in his eyes. Matt is sitting in a folding chair and watching him like a hawk; one of those same little sticky bandages is holding shut the cut along his hairline, what must have accounted for the blood. Foggy tries to focus on the clean white edges and instead his vision strobes.

(I know you haven't showered since yesterday. Matt knows he hasn't showered for at least three days, apart from a half-assed cleanup job with a wet washcloth. Matt knows more than that. Matt knows what he's been throwing up. Matt knows more than he ever wanted to know about Wilson Fisk. Two options present themselves: that Matt has no idea what happened, and that Matt knows exactly what happened and will never ever mention it.)

He can barely hold his head up; it feels like it's been hollowed out and stuffed with old socks. He can feel himself slipping back between the pillow and the cushion. Matt's hands are on his face, steadying him, and Foggy grunts in a way that is almost certainly embarrassing.

"Can I get you a glass of water or anything? There's juice, but I don't know if it'd do you any good."

Foggy swallows. The sensation of being choked is embossed on the inside of his throat, and suddenly he's dizzy again.

"I'm fine," Foggy says. "Claire gave me a drink earlier." This is a lie.

Matt's stiff hands withdraw from him. "Still feel like throwing up?"

"Nope. Is that good?" He's still nauseous, awash in weird Tilt-A-Whirl dizziness every time he moves his head even a little. But he no longer wants to vomit everywhere. He'll have to get Claire a big flower arrangement or something, spelling out sorry about all the puking in miniature crinkly roses. They've gotten to know each other pretty well, him and Claire.

"Pretty good, in my experience. How's your hand?"

"Shitty." He can't even begin to think of moving it, no more than he can contemplate going on a brisk jog. "But better. Thanks."

Looking on the corners of those dark eyes creasing, Foggy thinks, what if it had been him? Matt wouldn't have been so incapacitated he couldn't walk -- he'd have limped home come hell or high water. Foggy doesn't remember being carried, Foggy doesn't remember how he got out.

Matt would have gotten out. It wouldn't have been pretty, but he'd have made it out on his own one way or another. Matt would have fought harder. Karen would have gnawed off her own arm rather than spend thirty seconds in the same room as Fisk.

Why him? Why Foggy and not someone else-- he can't say why not Karen, he can't say why not Matt, because those are shitty questions. Because he was there, or if there was something he did that he can't remember in the concussion wash of merciful forgetfulness, because he took a different route home from work, because he turned off on the wrong street--

(because he was soft--)

*

Foggy doesn't remember the time, but he sleeps the heavy dreamless sleep of the dead until the first 2-hour interval for making sure he hasn't actually died. Claire takes a look at his eyes again, and it must be all right because she lets him go back to sleep -- but it's not the same, that druggy twilit sleep where he still half-hears the floorboards creak and the doors close, where even behind closed eyes he sees murky colors. It's too fucking cold.

People are touching him while he sleeps. Claire trying to be gentle, Matt incapable of it, fumbling him in his hands like a coffee cup. Foggy wakes up a couple times and can't remember where he is, too weak to roll off the cushions and too sick to complain even though irritability surges in him. Sometimes he thinks Karen is there, and he jerks upright trying to pull up the tangling sheets to make sure he's covered, only succeeding in fucking up his hand again.

He hears doors opening and closing, bandage tape unspooling from its roll, whispers turning into raised voices. They argue about some guy named Luke for a while. Claire's friend Luke owns the place. Claire wants to make a phone call. Talking about ordering delivery, and Claire laughing, a hard gallows laugh. The words "police custody".

They're not using Fisk's name, but he might as well be there in the room with them. The words are drumming hard against the inside of Foggy's skull, he's gonna come back, he's gonna come back, he's gonna come back. Police custody. Afraid.

They argue about Foggy too. He can tell. Matt's voice, stiff. "No. That's not possible. We need to do it here."

And Claire's voice around the corner, sharp and heated. "He could have a brain bleed." Talking about him like a patient. Like some random injured civilian who just wandered in and passed out. Talking about him like a thing.

He could be sitting right here listening to you guys, is what Foggy wants to say. But he's too ragdoll weak to straighten up, and the words come out looping and garbled. If they hear it they don't let him know.

*

Matt again in the frigid dark, Matt's hands on his shoulders, trying to press him awake like he'd rather be shaking him. Foggy wants nothing more than not to be there, and Matt keeps dragging him back.

"Stay awake, come on. I need to know what you remember."

Foggy swallows, feeling his throat tighten. Dirtiness prickles on his skin. "I remember Fisk. He thought you had one of his pals whacked, and he took it really personally."

"I need a name, Foggy. Did he give any kind of indication--"

"He didn't say. I don't fucking know, Matt." It's like a test he didn't study for, these answers are potentially of critical time-sensitive importance to their case and they're nowhere to be found. "He knew you were -- you. Or maybe he thinks you work for the guy in the mask, I can't tell."

"What?" Matt stiffens, drawing back. "Foggy, are you serious? Are we compromised?"

"I don't fucking know, maybe ask someone who doesn't have brain damage. What does that even mean, are we compromised--"

"This isn't to make your life harder. I need to know what we're dealing with."

His lungs are aching with the effort not to scream. Keep his voice down. People can hear. Hell, maybe they aren't even in Hell's Kitchen any more. "I didn't tell him anything. You've got to believe me."

"I can hear your heart beating," Matt says, voice flat with exhaustion. "I know you're not deliberately lying."

"But you think I'm lying on accident?"

"I'm saying you wouldn't necessarily know. Tell me what you saw. What you heard."

"I didn't see anything. It was just a room, there was a table, and -- and I'd know if I told him anything, Matt. If he knew anything about you he'd be here already."

(Two options present themselves. Somebody who thought he could shake down the guy in the mask by freaking out his lawyer. Or somebody who thought Foggy didn't matter enough to kill.)

Matt says nothing.

"I'm not lying, Matt. One of his guys got shot, and he thinks you did it. He didn't even ask me any questions."

Foggy is crying now, hunching up against his knees with the sharp ugly embarrassing tears bubbling up in his eyes. Matt is recoiling. What's worse -- He had bigger shit to deal with at the time, or: He didn't even know you were gone? Where the fuck was Matt? Where the fuck was he?

"All right," Matt says, nakedly uncomfortable. "All right, I believe you."

Lifting his head, Foggy grimace-smiles, feeling his cheek tug and tear. Things were a lot easier when he was just getting jabbed full of broken glass.

*

Somewhere after that, Matt folds, and lets Claire make the judgment calls. Last time Foggy was in a hospital he was still wearing a tie. They ask him questions in the hospital; they're not like Claire's questions, and Foggy must give good answers, because they keep bumping him up in the line.

He just keeps thinking, he doesn't freaking have the insurance for this, twice in six months? After managing to get by without a hospital visit for six years -- when it rains it pours. They know that there, about his terrible insurance at the hospital he doesn't know the name of, and they let him go. They don't know about anything else. Nobody's looking too closely at his ass when he's only complaining about his face -- when somebody mugged him for his phone, conveniently thumping him in the noggin hard enough to make an ID impossible, and Claire's just his Good Samaritan friend-of-a-friend who picked him up off the ground after a bad night. It might as well be true, and he keeps stupidly groping for the mobile device that isn't there, in moments when his head's not swimming. He doesn't want to think about where it is.

They don't notice cuff marks in with the mottled bruises; either that or they don't look for them.

There's only an hour-long wait for x-rays, since the rest of him is in such piss-poor shape -- sixty minutes without Matt, too damn long when all Foggy can think when he can't even think straight is that they shouldn't have left, that it can't be that bad, that it doesn't matter if his hand stays fucked-up forever because he walked right into that one and Matt is off somewhere touching base with Luke Cage, man of mystery, and hopefully not getting chopped up into little pieces by ninjas or gangsters. Big looping sentences, forced through his brain that still feels like a sieve.

As expected, his hand's broken, but it's not a bad break, not after Nurse Claire's expertise in jimmying things back into place. He's bleeding into his underwear when the doctor tells him he's free to leave. Provided Claire can wheel him home.

They let him go. They don't know.

Compared to Claire's place, the hospital barely registers, a moment in time that winks away like nothing. It barely makes an impression. Institutional blue and gray blinks out of view and it's back to green walls, gray carpet.

The layout of the apartment as Foggy understands it so far is this:

The empty bedroom is the war room, the arsenal; Claire has some kind of bug-out bag in there permanently unzipped, like a lot of people do after what happened in '12. The empty kitchen is where Matt's burner phone lives and doesn't have room for much else. The living room is for narcotic-induced Foggy naps and the bathroom is for other stuff. Matt has generously loaned him a toothbrush and a pair of sweatpants; under other circumstances, Foggy would appreciate the sensuality of the gesture, since with Matt's senses any leisure wear of his has to be hand-stitched from silk thread by Danish virgins. (Foggy used to think Matt was just fancy, imagine that. Monastic Matt Murdock, getting attached to small pleasures.) But with his ass being basically a wad of pain and gauze it's hard to appreciate how luxe that shit is. The toothbrush is probably a lost cause.

If not for everything hurting and having a memory of the last 48 hours that's ripped full of jagged holes he'd be at ease in his domain -- sweatpants, little beige couch, a nice buzz from the pain meds, all of it. The half-furnished apartment is the size of an Altoid box but for a single lady in New York -- not bad. Less airy than Matt's place, but not lit in neon. More like a panic room. Foggy is too tired for panic; he's landed squarely in some intermittent valley of exhaustion where the dread isn't creeping up on him but already covering him, already over his head. He's too tired to be afraid.

In between sleep he watches the door like he expects someone to come through it. What good is it going to do him to watch?

*

Foggy's feet have only just hit the floor when he claps his one good hand against his thigh, hard. The sound it makes startles Matt into halting in his tracks, and in the weird hollow quiet of the apartment it must have been louder than the actual creak of the opening door. The fingers on Foggy's bad hand twitch against the taped splint.

"Excuse me, were you trying to leave?"

"Actually, I--" Matt coughs a little and turns gingerly on his heel. His shoulders are bunched up almost imperceptibly underneath his coat, but Foggy from his little island of bruises can perceive it loud and clear. All that's missing is the mask. "Yes."

"Matt, you're not seriously thinking about going back out there. I thought you said it was covered."

Maybe they already got him. Maybe the guy's already cooling his heels in jail. Wilson Fisk in a little dark room, waiting for a fancy lawyer.

Matt's face is masklike, almost completely impassive. It couldn't be creepier. "I've got some stuff I need to get from the office. For work."

For somebody who knows exactly what indicates when other people are lying, he's a really shitty liar. For work, because they're really hitting an all-time productivity high these days. He doesn't even have his cane. Knowing that Matt doesn't really need that thing as such for a lot of the stuff Foggy assumed he did demystifies some of his competence, but he's still blind, he shouldn't be booking it unassisted through midday traffic like that -- or early morning, or afternoon, whatever it is--

(not when Fisk's going to come back, he's going to come back and he's going to do it again)

"Bullshit. You know that place is being watched like a hawk. He wants you to bust out guns blazing so he can mess you up a second time. And I'm guessing he's low on manpower." (Manpower. Two guys in suits, maybe three, and Fisk. Foggy feels his throat starting to tighten.) "I'm not asking you this as your friend. I'm telling you. That's not what I need you to do right now, okay?"

Matt slowly, carefully lets the door slip closed. Foggy expects to hear, 'this is bigger than what you need', maybe because he knows it is -- he can't even say it's not Matt's problem. It started being Matt's problem as soon as it happened to Matt's known associate and not just some suspected pal of his alter ego. This is every bit Matt's problem and it's on Matt to make the call, but damned if Foggy doesn't hate deferring to him on anything.

Matt is still, there in the low light from behind the drawn blinds, and without the glasses his eyes are intent and dark. They're wet, too.

It's not hard to tell when Matt's mad; just usually he's quivering with indignation at some social injustice and not rigid with anger because of something that happened to Foggy. All things considered, compared to the people whose cases they handle and compared to -- well, definitely compared to Matt or Karen, Foggy's lived a charmed life. Maybe that's what this is, a backlog of 28 years of misfortune getting dislodged by the universe in one colossal fuck-you to Franklin Nelson, Esquire.

Matt's hands are already balled in fists. Foggy's own wet congested breaths are loud in his ears, and he slowly watches Matt's fingers uncurl.

"Please, Matt."

Matt wipes his nose on the back of his scabby wrist, and asks, "What do you need me to do?"

"Don't freaking walk out on me, Murdock. I don't want to be alone right now." Foggy is blithering like a bad girlfriend and he can't stop, he's pretty sure his nose is running and he's pretty sure Matt must be mortified. A few more paces and he's close enough to smell him now, positively, lurching like a puppet. Matt shouldn't be going back out there anyway.

"You wouldn't be alone. There's Claire, there's Luke, there's Karen--"

(He hasn't even met this Luke guy yet, he's just bled all over his towels, how on earth is that supposed to be comforting? Foggy's cheekbone is throbbing in time with his pulse, and he can feel the craziness rising in his chest, the reedy franticness like he's gearing up to bawl Matt out--)

"So we're just the civilians? You need to stay right here and rest up and tell me if shit gets any worse. It's stupid. I'm sorry. I just need you to be here where I can see you."

He needs to know where Matt is, needs to know for sure. Needs to know he's in one place and not chopped up in a bunch of garbage bags. Who cares if the bad guys got Nelson; he needs to know they didn't get Murdock too.

Matt's shoulders untense a little; his mouth splits from its rigid pink line into something marginally more at ease, showing teeth. This is him beaten. But he's still not happy.

"Then I'll stay."

*

Claire's sleeping the sleep she so richly deserves, and it's somebody else's job to make Foggy Nelson doesn't die for another 2 hours. Matt lowers his body down next to him on the cushions -- so carefully that it's unreal, the showroom-new piece of furniture barely sags under him. The washcloth is slipping down Foggy's cheek, dribbling a rivulet of water down into his ear.

Matt tugs it back into place by a corner, a weird slithering sensation administered by clean hands. "You should eat something. It's no good taking that stuff on an empty stomach."

"Better now than never, I guess. Heavy chewing might be out of the picture. Spices. Tastes. God, now I want a bagel."

"Claire has a toaster, but I don't know about bread."

It comes out kind of burned, but between the two of them, completely wrecked, they can manage two pieces of wheat toast. Who eats just one piece of toast? Matt takes the heel of the loaf, like some kind of culinary martyr. Foggy can barely handle his -- can barely manipulate a piece of toast even with the hand that didn't get pulped -- but his hunger comes back with a vengeance after the first few bites and he finds himself too embarrassed to ask for anything more, too unwilling to have Matt get up from the couch to get it. It's like they're in school again and they both have matching massive hangovers and did a lot of shit they regret and any moment now Matt will just keel over like a felled tree and slow-motion slump against Foggy's shoulder. But if he did that now Foggy would probably be sick, and Matt's rigid upright, quietly thrumming with hurt and horror.

It's Foggy who slumps, heavy with pain and too stiff to move more fluidly; his head's not exactly in Matt's lap, but there's not enough room on the couch for them to entirely not touch.

He doesn't know what time it is or how long it's been, but Foggy calls him by name. His own hoarseness sounds grating. Matt can't look at him, but he still turns his face, and the worry written there makes Foggy so scared he's been calling for him before and just doesn't remember it.

"Yeah," Matt sort of breathes. There's a scrape across his cheek, down from his mouth like a lipstick mark. Even beat up, he still looks kind of pretty. Foggy looks like a reject from the produce section, the kind of bruised fruit they can't sell.

"Would it be too weird for you to pray for me? I'm just saying, I need all the help I can get."

Matt's religious, but he's not the kind of religious that ever made Foggy feel like he was anything less for not really coming along for the ride. Or for that matter, he's not the kind of guy who would do that kind of thing unbidden, except maybe really quietly. Lots of Matt's favorite things are not precisely on the Catholic Church's list of recommended hobbies either. Maybe it's just fanciful thinking thanks to his brain being scrambled but it's not like it can hurt.

Matt sighs, and rearranges his arm so he's not actually touching Foggy, he's just almost touching him. The distance between them is a chasm. "Not at all. It's not weird at all." And with scraped-up hands he makes something that from a low angle looks a hell of a lot like the sign of the cross. Foggy doesn't know why people do that, definitely not now, but he knows that they do and that he's never seen Matt do it before.

(It hurts too much to think, but he does something that's more like a prayer than he'd like to admit, lying in the dark with a hollow belly and a wet washcloth over one eye, still too broken to move -- a clear inward enunciation that he needs Matt to be fine even if he's not, that this can't be the thing that breaks it all. Foggy doesn't know what he's going to do.)

Thank you! And yeah, that would make a cute picture, wouldn't it? :D

(A!A here) Thank you!!

(A!A here) Wow, I missed ALL these comments. Thank you so much!

(A!A here super late) Thank you so much!

(A!A here super late) *revives* Glad you enjoyed it! :)

(A!A here super late) Great! Glad you liked it, OP!

(A!A here super late) Eheheheheh. :D Glad you liked it!

(A!A here super late) ♥ Glad you liked it! Thanks!

(A!A here super late) :D I maybe got wayyy too much joy out of using that line. Glad you liked it!

ahaha there's a second chapter now. more will happen eventually --A!A

This is surprisingly believable for such an outlandish scenario. Seriously, i hope u plan on continuing cause i am hooked now

“Absolutely not,” says Foggy. He still has to bite his lip not to drop a Sir at the end.

“I’m certified,” Matt points out, which earns him a glare Foggy knows he can’t seen and would probably ignore if he could. He looks like absolute shit, and Foggy still has no idea how Stark’s planning to sneak him out of the building later that afternoon without attracting attention.

“I know you’re certified,” Foggy snaps. “We’re both certified. That’s not the point.”

Captain America--Captain America raises an eyebrow. “The point being?”

This is my life, Foggy thinks. This is my stupid, stupid life. I am arguing with Captain America. I am probably the worst person in the universe by default. “Because there are conflicts of interest, and then there’s trying to serve as guardian ad litem for a group of kids who literally tried to kill you.” What the hell had Matt been thinking? “Look, we can help you find someone else, but--”

“Black Widow has led us to believe that Matt may have some--unique qualifications--in this case,” Captain America tells him.

Foggy shakes his head. “Matt’s unique qualifications have nothing to do with this.” He’s turning down work from the Avengers. Who probably pay in actual legal tender, not home cooking. “And I realize we are the last firm with a leg to stand on when it comes to conflict of interest--to which situation I have and continue to lodge strenuous objection--but as far as I’m concerned, the welfare of children represents a hard line.” Matt opens his mouth like he’s going to object, and Foggy raises a hand to stop him, then turns to the Avengers. “Could you please excuse us for a moment?”

The other three file out, and Foggy turns to Matt, fuming.

“I can--” Matt starts, but Foggy cuts him off.

“No. This is not a negotiation. You’re talking about a process that would be horrifically complicated under the best of circumstances. You serve as guardian ad litem, you make every step of that process suspect. You get caught, the kids pay. I don’t care what the hell personal investment you have in this, Matt. You have to step back. You do not get to fight kids and then represent their interests in court.”

“I didn’t fight them,” Matt snaps, and it takes the wind right out of Foggy’s sails. Of course he didn’t. He just stood there and let them--Jesus fucking Christ. Matt still hasn’t told him exactly what happened, and the Avengers, for all their bullshit, actually seem to care about medical confidentiality, but Foggy’s going to remember that shaky cell phone video of Matt dragging himself into the tower until the day he dies.

Foggy rests a hand on Matt’s uninjured shoulder, lost in the sea of Foggy’s hoodie. “Look, buddy, you had to have known this wouldn’t fly. What’s really going on here?”

Matt takes off his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose. “You don’t understand.”

Fucking Matt. “Then tell me. Use your lawyer words.”

Matt starts to sigh, then winces and grimaces. “Sorry.”

“Ribs?” asks Foggy. He tries not to think about how good he’s gotten at identifying injuries by the sounds Matt makes when he’s trying to hide them.

Matt shakes his head. “Knife. I”m fine. Look, Fog, these kids, they don’t--a court-appointed guardian isn’t going to know what’s best for them. They’re--it’s--”

“Is this connected to--” he’s not sure how to say it. “Your… thing?”

“My thing.”

He feels horrible even saying it. “Your plot-of-Kung Fu thing. Getting trained as, like, a kid ninja by some crazy old dude.”

Matt’s mouth tightens, which is as much answer as Foggy needs. “Matt.”

Matt shakes his head. “You don’t know.”

This, again. “Then tell me.”

Matt’s face is nakedly desperate. “They’re not going to understand. These kids--I talked to Sam.” Falcon, Foggy connects after a moment. “They’ve been--I can’t just walk away.”

“No one’s asking you to walk away,” Foggy tells him. “Especially no one who saw you hobble in here.” It earns him a snort, but he can see Matt trying not to smile, which he counts as a win. “And no one here is dumb enough to think that you’d walk away if we asked you to. But you can’t be their ad litem, Matt. You can’t.”

Matt shakes his head again, then just sits there, slumped. His hands are lost somewhere in the sleeves of Foggy’s hoodie, and even with most of a week’s beard, he looks about twelve. Foggy can’t imagine who could look at this kid and decide to try to make him a killer. Any kid, really, but Matt--

He sighs. “Okay.”

Matt perks up. “Okay?”

Foggy glares. “No. I mean, none of this is okay, and you absolutely can’t be their guardian but--I’m certified, too. You can consult. No direct contact.”

Matt looks like he’s about to say something, but whatever it is, he’s smart enough to swallow it down with a nod.

“Okay,” says Foggy, to no one in particular. “I assume you’ve all been listening anyway, so you might as well come back in.” Cap at least has the decency to look a little sheepish as they file back in. He sees Black Widow squeeze Matt’s elbow under the table; and Matt responds with a quick half-smile. Of course: If there’s a stunning woman with questionable character in the room, Matt Murdock is going to find her, and Foggy Nelson is going to suffer.

yay, more fic! :D

i love foggy putting his foot down and actually winning an argument with matt for once... and then giving in and agreeing to do the job himself because he's still terrible at saying no to his best friend. i think having foggy as the kids' guardian ad litem (and matt consulting without any direct contact) is probably the best compromise they could hope for.

That was a bit of a jump, from part 6 to this. I had to go back and re-read to make sure I hadn't missed anything, because I didn't know where they were and what they were doing when this part started. Took me a minute or two to figure it out.

I loved how Foggy was thinking that arguing with Captain America makes him the worst person in the universe by default. Actually, Foggy, I'm quite sure that it does not. *g* And how he was thinking that the Avengers would pay in actual money and not home cooking, but he had to turn down the offer anyway.

It's kind of scary that Foggy can identify Matt's injuries, more or less, by the sounds he makes trying to hide them. And scary, too, how much Matt identifies with these kids, so much that he's trying to help them even though they wanted to kill him.

I love that Foggy steps up and volunteers to be their guardian, with Matt consulting. That's the best thing anybody could come up with, I think.

And that last line about Matt and Black Widow made me laugh.

I died laughing. This comment made my day!

For some reason this prompt grabbed me and said "You have ignored enough of us already, you want to read a DaredevilXSentinel fill, write it yourself!" So here it is.
***
***
Foggy freaks the first time he comes back to the dorm, running on the high of having finished his last mid-term and finds Matt just standing in the middle of the room, head cocked slightly to the side the way it is when he is listening to something, completely unresponsive. He pokes and prods his roommate for a good five minutes, calls his name and even waves a hand in front of his face before he gets a response. He actually gives up and is in the process of dialing 911 when Matt makes a harsh, confused little sound, like a puppy sitting on a ferret, and sways on his feet.
"Foggy? What-"
"Dude!" Foggy interrupts, tossing his phone onto his bed, he can feel his heart pounding in his chest and, okay, yeah, maybe he's a little unsettled but can you blame a guy? "What the hell was that?"
Matt blinks at him (or at a space over his left shoulder anyway) with his forehead furrowed, his eyes flicking around sporadically. It's a little hypnotic honestly, and Foggy abruptly realizes that this is the first time he has really seen Matt without his glasses on, other than the occasional glances caught in the mornings and at night. They've been roommates for a month and a half and he hadn't every had a clear, unobstructed view of the guy's face.
Matt sways again and Foggy decides that making sure he doesn't collapse is probably more important than gazing soulfully into his eyes or whatever. He cautiously nudges Matt to sit on his own bed and pulls one of the desk chairs over to sit in front of him. "Are you okay? 'Cause I'm still not sure if I should call an ambulance or not. You were seriously checked out there."
Matt flushes a bright red and ducks his head, doing that thing where he sort of curls up into himself like a hedgehog. "Nothing. Nothing. It's...I'm fine."
"Uh huh." Candace would be proud of the amount of sarcasm Foggy packs into that grunt. "I've seen fine and dude, that? Was not fine. It was like," he hesitates. "The lights were on but nobody was home."
The material of Matt's horrifyingly ugly sweater (It's soft, Foggy.) rustles as he worries the hem between his fingers as he stares sightlessly at the opposite wall. "How long was-How long was I out of it?"
"Dunno." Foggy shrugs before remembering. "I just shrugged. You were just standing there when I got back?"
Matt's face turns towards the table where his alarm clock is sitting, just out of reach. "What time is it?"
"4:52. Why?"
He doesn't answer of course, jerk. Just shrugs. Foggy opens his mouth to demand more answers before grinding to a halt. He has only known Matt Murdock for a month and a half, (six weeks and three days)in that time he has seen him look nervous, amused, awkward, determined...any number of expressions visible despite the glasses. He has never seen Matt Murdock look scared.
He makes an executive decision. "I'm going to move over and sit beside you. Okay." And he does. He makes sure to leave some space between them, Matt is still a little wary of casual touching. (Once he gets comfortable though, he'll turn a one-eighty. Foggy knows. He's never wrong about this.) They sit in silence before Matt finally speaks.
"I really am-really am okay, you know. I always come out of it eventually."
Foggy doesn't say anything, but he is terrified at the thought of this being a regular occurrence.
Matt is tired, worn out by...whatever that was and goes to sleep soon after. Foggy powers on his laptop and consults the Google-gods. That is how he learns about "absence seizures". It seems to fit.
Matt has a total of thirty-seven more during their time as roommates. That Foggy knows about. They last anywhere from no more than half a minute, to one terrifying episode that lasted a full half-hour and Foggy had to bring him out of it with a steady stream of chatter and gentle pressure on his hand graduating to panicked name yelling and a bruising grip when he stopped breathing. The episodes don't happen as often at the end of their time in school, but after they get their own apartments and leave Landman & Zack for their own practice there is more than one morning when Matt doesn't show up to work and doesn't answer his phone and Foggy rushes to his apartment, terrified that this will be the time he finds his best friend so far gone he can't bring him back.
***
If the absence seizures are bad, the migraines are worse.
The first one of those comes right before Thanksgiving that first year, just when Foggy has started to, not get used to, but freak out less about the seizures.
Matt is one of the strongest people he knows, and seeing him reduced to a tightly-wound, quivering, moaning ball of pain is so far beyond unsettling it isn't funny. There isn't much he can do other than keep the trashcan lined with fresh bags, emptying it every time Matt throws up, and keeping a low hum of gentle nonsense words that Matt latches onto like a life-line.
When Matt's feeling better, he actually gets some answers out of him. Sound hurts, taste and smell are overwhelming, touch hurts, everything hurts. Matt doesn't say anything, but Foggy can tell that somehow, just by being there, he helps.
The next time he is woken in the middle of the night by Matt trying to suffer in silence he texts Jen and asks her to take notes for him, he won't be making it in to class today.
The Migraines (and they totally deserve a capital "M") grow far less frequent after the first year. By the time Nelson & Murdock is a reality, it has been eleven months,two weeks and one day without one. (Foggy knows. He counts.)
***
By the time their first spring break as roomies rolls around, Foggy can practically write a "Care and Keeping of Matt Murdock" guide book.
Don't startle him, wake him up by throwing a pillow from across the room. Remind him to eat at least once a day, feed him bland foods, especially when he's tired. Make sure that mom knows how he's doing. (Anna Nelson has a favorite son and it sure isn't Foggy.)
And Matt returns the favor. Not as rambunctiously as Foggy does, but it doesn't take long before the random appearance of food and...well, mostly food, all his favorite things and several more "healthy" options, ceases to amaze him. Matt seems to have appointed himself as Foggy's ninja baby-sitter, which since Foggy has decided to be Matt's not-ninja caretaker is really only fair. (How a blind man is able to be so freakin' sneaky though, he'll never know.)
He draws the line at Matt fighting his battles for him.
It is really weird actually. Matt may occasionally show signs of being an (extremely) emotionally constipated mother-hen from Hell, but he knows that Foggy is perfectly capable of holding his own, especially against hundredth-rate creeps like Mac Murray. That doesn't stop him from verbally ripping the loser a new one when he manages to insult Foggy's weight, hygiene, and capabilities all in one statement, right after knocking him into the corner of the student center hard enough to wind him. (And Foggy takes offense at that. It is impossible to room with Matt Murdock and not have good hygiene. Not that Matt complains but it obviously bothers him when Foggy goes too long without showering or doing laundry. And Foggy does not deny his ability to be a complete asshole when necessary but he isn't cruel.)
If Foggy hadn't been physically holding him back, he's pretty sure that Matt would have actually assaulted the guy which would not have gone well.
They have a huge fight about it when they get back to the dorm. They don't talk for three days until Foggy finds Matt in the bathroom with his fingers resting lightly on one of the rough hand-towels that his mom had sent them.
It takes him fifteen minutes to pull Matt out of that one and they seem to mutually decide to not mention the past few days. He does occasionally notice Matt holding himself back on occasion instead of leaping to Foggy's defense.
Foggy appreciates it.

Sorry, I forgot to label it accordingly.

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Prompt Post #5

Re: Minifill: YOU COULD HAVE WARNED ME!!!

FILL: The Price of a Soul (12/?)

Re: [Fill] "A Moral Decision in One Eighth of a Second"

Re: [MINIFILL] i'll give you shelter from the storm

Re: [Minifill???] L'Homme Fatal, Wesley/Matt

Re: [FILL] Matt/Peter, Ice Bath.

Re: fill: "why ask politely, why go lightly, why say please" 2a/3

Re: fill: "why ask politely, why go lightly, why say please" 2b/3

Re: [Fill] "A Moral Decision in One Eighth of a Second"

Re: [MINIFILL] i'll give you shelter from the storm

Re: [MINIFILL] i'll give you shelter from the storm

Re: [MINIFILL] i'll give you shelter from the storm

Re: [MINIFILL] i'll give you shelter from the storm

Re: [MINIFILL] i'll give you shelter from the storm

Re: [MINIFILL] i'll give you shelter from the storm

Re: [MINIFILL] i'll give you shelter from the storm

Re: [MINIFILL] i'll give you shelter from the storm

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

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

FILL: In the Absence of St. Germaine (7/?)

Re: FILL: In the Absence of St. Germaine (7/?)

Re: FILL: In the Absence of St. Germaine (7/?)

Re: The people in the financial office next door

Fill: Nothing Special (Gen)

The Above Fill is Part 1/2