The thing is, he’s always known Foggy was attracted to him. Right from the very beginning, when Foggy called him handsome in the same breath as a greeting, when his heartbeat ramped up at Matt’s handshake, when it kept happening every time they touched. It felt weird as hell, at first, but Foggy never brought it up beyond the occasional flirting that was so over the top even Matt couldn’t take it seriously, and eventually it just became part of the background hum of Foggy’s existence in his life, like his girly shampoo and the way he liked to tell the same stories over and over again without ever keeping the details straight. As far as awkward crushes went, this one was surprisingly not-awkward, actually.
And then Daredevil happened, and Fisk, and Matt’s carefully constructed world went straight to hell.
***
Things are awkward afterward.
They try, both of them. He knows Foggy is making an effort, and for the first few months he’s so damn grateful that it’s the only thing he notices. Foggy takes him out drinking and takes over his caseload when he can’t make it in and on more than one occasion patches him up after a particularly brutal night.
That’s how it starts. In Foggy’s bedroom, middle of the night, the smell of antiseptic and latex gloves, the two shots of whiskey Matt had for the pain and Foggy mumbling curses under his breath as he smooths the edges of the bandages down. It’s not serious. Matt wouldn’t have come here if it was serious, but two of the gashes are on his back, where he can’t easily reach. Foggy pulls the gloves off, takes a short breath, and Matt knows he’s going to say--
“Damn it, Matt, I know you feel like this whole lone gun thing is something you have to do, but would it kill you to be careful?”
Matt rolls his head back against the headboard and smiles in his direction. “I’m careful.”
“If this is careful, I don’t want to see what reckless looks like.”
“I’m alive, aren’t I?”
Foggy lets out a hard, angry breath through his nose. “What if one day I’m not around? Or Claire? What happens if you end up like this and nobody’s there to patch you back together? Have you even considered that?”
“It’s not that serious, Foggy, come on--”
“This time! This time it’s not that serious. Do I have to remind you about that time I found you half dead on your living room floor? Because I sure as hell haven’t forgotten, and neither have my anxiety meds.”
“You’re not on anxiety meds,” Matt points out, “and anyway, I thought we were past this.”
“No,” Foggy says. “No, we are not past this. We’re not--” He sighs, and it’s like the anger just runs out of him, the stiffness melting into exhaustion as he sinks down on the mattress next to Matt. “I don’t know how long I can watch you do this to yourself, okay?”
A sharp spike of fear drops into Matt’s gut. He doesn’t mean--he can’t mean--
He knows Foggy doesn’t mean that he’s going to leave. He knows that. Foggy came back; Foggy always comes back.
But for how long? There’s nothing tying him to Matt, not really. Nothing but their friendship and his own overdeveloped sense of responsibility, and for that he gets to patch up his best friend in the middle of the night and lose sleep and get shot at. It’s not fair, and sooner or later Foggy is going to figure that out. He could have so much more than this.
They’re sitting on the couch, close together: Foggy’s kneecap pressed against Matt’s thigh, the warmth of his arm on the back of the couch, the familiar sound of his breathing, his heartbeat. He takes another short breath, and Matt can’t stand to listen to it, can’t take the chance that he’s going to say I can’t do this Matt, I can’t do this anymore--
So he does the only thing he can think of. He leans in and kisses Foggy on his half-open mouth.
Foggy freezes, emanating shock. Matt reaches up, touches his cheek, the dear, familiar curve of his jaw, and Foggy makes a small noise in the back of his throat and tilts his head, and they’re kissing for real.
It’s not quite like anything Matt has experienced, and he’s kissed a lot of people. All women, though, up to now, and it turns out that does make a difference; Foggy’s jaw is rough beneath his fingertips, the scent of his skin unmistakably masculine. There’s a hot flush rising in his cheeks, the beginning of arousal, and Matt can’t think about that, can’t let himself think that far ahead now, but it’s--nice, actually. It feels good. Foggy is a surprisingly good kisser, and Matt lets himself relax a little, because maybe he doesn’t want it the way Foggy does, but it’s not going to be awful. He can do this.
Then Foggy breaks the kiss, pushes him away. It’s gentle--he’s not by nature a violent person, which is one of the many things that puts him several rungs above Matt on the grand ladder of morality--but his heart is thudding in his chest and his hands are shaking.
When he speaks, his tone is careful. “What are you doing, Matt?”
Matt tries out his most charming smile. It usually works pretty well on Foggy, but he’s at a slight disadvantage now because there’s still blood on his face and he’s not sure how bad the bruising is, but it’s bad enough to hurt at the stretch of his lips. “Kissing you.”
“That much I got. Why?”
And God, what he would give to be able to say because I want to and mean it. He can’t make his lips shape the lie, though, so he tries the next best thing. “Don’t you want me to?”
“Yeah,” Foggy says bluntly, like the honesty is easy for him, like he isn’t baring himself in the worst way, like he doesn’t know that Matt can hear his heart pounding and smell arousal on his skin. “I’ve wanted you to kiss me since the first time you walked into our dorm room. Which I’m sure you know, Mr. Super-Senses-Ninja, so I guess what I’m wondering is why you’re doing it now.”
Matt doesn’t answer. Foggy breathes in sharply--he forgets sometimes, how smart Foggy is, how perceptive under the layers of snark and half-serious flirting--and then he’s standing, stepping back, his heartbeat ramping up in what Matt is pretty sure is not arousal. “Oh, you have to be kidding me. This is--you know, I knew you had that whole Catholic guilt thing going on, but I did at least think that the ‘Catholic’ part would stop you from trying to seduce me because you feel bad!”
Matt winces. “That’s not why.”
“Then why?” A rustle, an angry breath; Foggy is tugging at his hair. “Enlighten me, please, Matthew!”
“I--”
“What, do you think I’m going to leave if you don’t--” Foggy breaks off abruptly, and Matt cringes, waiting for it. “Oh, my God. That’s it, isn’t it? You think I’m going to leave, so you--”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re--” Foggy bites down on what is probably an impressive stream of invective, spins away on his heel. His heart is pounding, and he’s flushed--the rush of blood in his cheeks, his hands twitching like he wants to punch something. He takes several deep, slow breaths, and then says, “Matt, I’m not going anywhere. I’m pissed off at you for lying to me, and I’m really pissed off that you’re trying to get yourself killed, but I’m not going anywhere. Okay? You got it?”
Matt nods. He can feel his cheeks burning, and he knows Foggy can see it. “I got it.”
“Good.” Another deep breath, then Foggy crosses the room and sits back down, leaving a good three feet of space between them on the couch. “I know you’re straight, okay? And yeah, maybe I--” A rustle of cloth as he shrugs, and it’s actually painful how casual he’s trying to sound. “I’ve, you know, thought about it, but you’re my best friend, and I’m not just hanging around in hope of a pity blowjob.”
Matt nods again. His face is still red, he knows, and he can feel blood pounding in his ears, and he’s suddenly very glad that Foggy can’t sense the things he can because the image that flashes into his head at that is so vivid that it’s like being hit with a two-by-four--the thought of kneeling between Foggy’s solid thighs, Foggy’s hands tangled in his hair, what he would taste like and sound like and feel like--
The arousal that follows in a flash of heat and prickling skin is, well. Unexpected.
Very distantly, he hears Foggy say, “Okay, I’m going to bed,” and he manages to nod and say something reasonable back.
The door clicks shut, and Matt sinks back on the bed, putting his hands over his face.
It’s fatigue, he thinks. Fatigue, and a long dry spell, and the fact that Foggy kissed him like he was something precious and not the blind, fucked-up son of a broken-down prizefighter. That would be enough to mess with anybody’s head. It’s not that he doesn’t love Foggy. He does.
I know you’re straight, Foggy said, and he is. He always has been.
FILL: leave the world outside 1/?
And then Daredevil happened, and Fisk, and Matt’s carefully constructed world went straight to hell.
***
Things are awkward afterward.
They try, both of them. He knows Foggy is making an effort, and for the first few months he’s so damn grateful that it’s the only thing he notices. Foggy takes him out drinking and takes over his caseload when he can’t make it in and on more than one occasion patches him up after a particularly brutal night.
That’s how it starts. In Foggy’s bedroom, middle of the night, the smell of antiseptic and latex gloves, the two shots of whiskey Matt had for the pain and Foggy mumbling curses under his breath as he smooths the edges of the bandages down. It’s not serious. Matt wouldn’t have come here if it was serious, but two of the gashes are on his back, where he can’t easily reach. Foggy pulls the gloves off, takes a short breath, and Matt knows he’s going to say--
“Damn it, Matt, I know you feel like this whole lone gun thing is something you have to do, but would it kill you to be careful?”
Matt rolls his head back against the headboard and smiles in his direction. “I’m careful.”
“If this is careful, I don’t want to see what reckless looks like.”
“I’m alive, aren’t I?”
Foggy lets out a hard, angry breath through his nose. “What if one day I’m not around? Or Claire? What happens if you end up like this and nobody’s there to patch you back together? Have you even considered that?”
“It’s not that serious, Foggy, come on--”
“This time! This time it’s not that serious. Do I have to remind you about that time I found you half dead on your living room floor? Because I sure as hell haven’t forgotten, and neither have my anxiety meds.”
“You’re not on anxiety meds,” Matt points out, “and anyway, I thought we were past this.”
“No,” Foggy says. “No, we are not past this. We’re not--” He sighs, and it’s like the anger just runs out of him, the stiffness melting into exhaustion as he sinks down on the mattress next to Matt. “I don’t know how long I can watch you do this to yourself, okay?”
A sharp spike of fear drops into Matt’s gut. He doesn’t mean--he can’t mean--
He knows Foggy doesn’t mean that he’s going to leave. He knows that. Foggy came back; Foggy always comes back.
But for how long? There’s nothing tying him to Matt, not really. Nothing but their friendship and his own overdeveloped sense of responsibility, and for that he gets to patch up his best friend in the middle of the night and lose sleep and get shot at. It’s not fair, and sooner or later Foggy is going to figure that out. He could have so much more than this.
They’re sitting on the couch, close together: Foggy’s kneecap pressed against Matt’s thigh, the warmth of his arm on the back of the couch, the familiar sound of his breathing, his heartbeat. He takes another short breath, and Matt can’t stand to listen to it, can’t take the chance that he’s going to say I can’t do this Matt, I can’t do this anymore--
So he does the only thing he can think of. He leans in and kisses Foggy on his half-open mouth.
Foggy freezes, emanating shock. Matt reaches up, touches his cheek, the dear, familiar curve of his jaw, and Foggy makes a small noise in the back of his throat and tilts his head, and they’re kissing for real.
It’s not quite like anything Matt has experienced, and he’s kissed a lot of people. All women, though, up to now, and it turns out that does make a difference; Foggy’s jaw is rough beneath his fingertips, the scent of his skin unmistakably masculine. There’s a hot flush rising in his cheeks, the beginning of arousal, and Matt can’t think about that, can’t let himself think that far ahead now, but it’s--nice, actually. It feels good. Foggy is a surprisingly good kisser, and Matt lets himself relax a little, because maybe he doesn’t want it the way Foggy does, but it’s not going to be awful. He can do this.
Then Foggy breaks the kiss, pushes him away. It’s gentle--he’s not by nature a violent person, which is one of the many things that puts him several rungs above Matt on the grand ladder of morality--but his heart is thudding in his chest and his hands are shaking.
When he speaks, his tone is careful. “What are you doing, Matt?”
Matt tries out his most charming smile. It usually works pretty well on Foggy, but he’s at a slight disadvantage now because there’s still blood on his face and he’s not sure how bad the bruising is, but it’s bad enough to hurt at the stretch of his lips. “Kissing you.”
“That much I got. Why?”
And God, what he would give to be able to say because I want to and mean it. He can’t make his lips shape the lie, though, so he tries the next best thing. “Don’t you want me to?”
“Yeah,” Foggy says bluntly, like the honesty is easy for him, like he isn’t baring himself in the worst way, like he doesn’t know that Matt can hear his heart pounding and smell arousal on his skin. “I’ve wanted you to kiss me since the first time you walked into our dorm room. Which I’m sure you know, Mr. Super-Senses-Ninja, so I guess what I’m wondering is why you’re doing it now.”
Matt doesn’t answer. Foggy breathes in sharply--he forgets sometimes, how smart Foggy is, how perceptive under the layers of snark and half-serious flirting--and then he’s standing, stepping back, his heartbeat ramping up in what Matt is pretty sure is not arousal. “Oh, you have to be kidding me. This is--you know, I knew you had that whole Catholic guilt thing going on, but I did at least think that the ‘Catholic’ part would stop you from trying to seduce me because you feel bad!”
Matt winces. “That’s not why.”
“Then why?” A rustle, an angry breath; Foggy is tugging at his hair. “Enlighten me, please, Matthew!”
“I--”
“What, do you think I’m going to leave if you don’t--” Foggy breaks off abruptly, and Matt cringes, waiting for it. “Oh, my God. That’s it, isn’t it? You think I’m going to leave, so you--”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re--” Foggy bites down on what is probably an impressive stream of invective, spins away on his heel. His heart is pounding, and he’s flushed--the rush of blood in his cheeks, his hands twitching like he wants to punch something. He takes several deep, slow breaths, and then says, “Matt, I’m not going anywhere. I’m pissed off at you for lying to me, and I’m really pissed off that you’re trying to get yourself killed, but I’m not going anywhere. Okay? You got it?”
Matt nods. He can feel his cheeks burning, and he knows Foggy can see it. “I got it.”
“Good.” Another deep breath, then Foggy crosses the room and sits back down, leaving a good three feet of space between them on the couch. “I know you’re straight, okay? And yeah, maybe I--” A rustle of cloth as he shrugs, and it’s actually painful how casual he’s trying to sound. “I’ve, you know, thought about it, but you’re my best friend, and I’m not just hanging around in hope of a pity blowjob.”
Matt nods again. His face is still red, he knows, and he can feel blood pounding in his ears, and he’s suddenly very glad that Foggy can’t sense the things he can because the image that flashes into his head at that is so vivid that it’s like being hit with a two-by-four--the thought of kneeling between Foggy’s solid thighs, Foggy’s hands tangled in his hair, what he would taste like and sound like and feel like--
The arousal that follows in a flash of heat and prickling skin is, well. Unexpected.
Very distantly, he hears Foggy say, “Okay, I’m going to bed,” and he manages to nod and say something reasonable back.
The door clicks shut, and Matt sinks back on the bed, putting his hands over his face.
It’s fatigue, he thinks. Fatigue, and a long dry spell, and the fact that Foggy kissed him like he was something precious and not the blind, fucked-up son of a broken-down prizefighter. That would be enough to mess with anybody’s head. It’s not that he doesn’t love Foggy. He does.
I know you’re straight, Foggy said, and he is. He always has been.
This is just a fluke.