He tries, he really does. Foggy seems to forget about the Incident fairly quickly (that’s what Matt has taken to calling it in his head, the Incident, capital letter and all, and he’s perfectly well-aware of exactly how ridiculous that makes him); his lingering awkwardness dissipates quickly, and within a week he’s back to slinging his arm around Matt and burying his face in his neck when he laughs, and how the hell did Matt not find this distracting before?
He knows Foggy loves him. But Foggy loves Karen, too, and Josie, and Brett; he loved Elena Cardenas with her sweet quick voice and her hands that always smelled like cocoa butter; he loves his mother and his father and his sisters. He still loves Marci, even after everything. Foggy loves people easily, fearlessly, in a way that Matt can admire but not emulate. It’s inexplicable that he loves Matt, but it’s not unique.
Foggy wants him, too, but he also turned him down, and the thing is, Matt isn’t even sure if he’s bothered by that because of his ego--he’s not exactly the playboy Foggy likes to make him out to be, but it’s not often that he’s flat-out rejected--or if it’s something else. Something like wanting to kiss Foggy again, to keep kissing him, to strip him out of the coarse broadcloth shirts he wears, to map the shape of his body, the dip and curve of his spine, and--
--and this is really not the kind of thing he needs to be thinking at work, even if Foggy isn’t in the same room as him. Matt can smell him, even from the other side of the office.
“Hey, do you have a minute?” Karen asks from the doorway, and he almost jumps out of his skin. “I’m sorry, did I--”
“It’s fine,” Matt says quickly, pressing his palms against the desk. “I was just thinking. What’s up?”
“I can come back later,” Karen says, and her heart is thudding in her chest and he can smell the ghost of whiskey on her breath, under the coffee and toothpaste. She isn’t drunk, but Karen has the same slightly unhealthy relationship with alcohol that Foggy does, and she probably had a shot before she left for work this morning, to steel herself for whatever it is she wants to tell him. It’s the sort of thing Matt always thinks he should scold about, but it’s not like he has a leg to stand on when it comes to self-destructive habits. “If you’re busy.”
“It’s fine, Karen,” he repeats, more gently this time. “Come in.”
She comes into the office and shuts the door behind her. It wouldn’t stop Matt from overhearing if he was in the other room, and honestly it probably wouldn’t stop Foggy, if he was paying attention; the walls aren’t exactly soundproof, but she apparently needs at least the illusion of privacy.
“What’s going on?” he asks again, when she doesn’t say anything.
“I--” she begins, then stops. Shakes her head. “Someone tried to follow me home last night.”
Matt feels himself go still at that, distraction evaporating. On the other side of the wall, he hears the rhythm of Foggy’s typing stop. “Tried?”
“I’m pretty sure I threw him off going through Chinatown, but--yeah.”
“Do you know why?” He’s fairly sure that Karen wouldn’t have come to him about some random creep; she’s pretty stubborn about handling that kind of thing on her own, even though Matt (and probably Foggy too, for that matter) would cheerfully beat to a pulp every asshole who cat-calls her on the street or gropes her on the subway.
“No,” she says immediately. Her heartbeat speeds up--a lie. She knows, or at least she has a pretty good idea. “But he wasn’t--you know how guys look when they want that kind of thing. Or, I guess you don’t,” she corrects quickly, and Matt’s not sure if she’s referring to his gender or his blindness or both. She’s right; he doesn’t know. But he can guess. “But he wasn’t like that. He was--professional.”
“Professional. How?”
“He stayed out of sight. He didn’t--he wasn’t trying to get me to notice him. I’ve had guys follow me on the street before, but they’re--they want attention, you know? This guy, he didn’t want me to notice him. And I’m pretty sure he was wearing a gun.”
“And you don’t want to go to the police,” Matt says. It’s not a question.
“I don’t trust the police. Not after what happened with Fisk.” A soft rustle of hair; she’s shaking her head. Her heart is still rabbit-quick. Not trusting the police might be part of it--a completely reasonable attitude, after everything that’s happened recently--but it isn’t everything. There’s something else complicating the issue, something she isn’t willing to tell him yet.
Matt is a lawyer, not a detective, but he knows a few things about getting information out of reluctant witnesses. Pushing her right now will get him nowhere.
“Okay,” he says, sliding his chair back and standing. “We’ll figure it out. You might want to let Foggy in on it, though.”
“Let me in on what?” Foggy calls from the other side of the door. “Because I have no idea what the two of you are talking about, obviously.”
Karen draws a sharp breath; Matt gives her his most disarming smile. “Thin walls.”
“You knew he was listening,” she accuses, but she doesn’t sound angry. Good.
“Just a guess,” Matt lies easily.
“Are you guys going to tell me what’s going on?” Foggy asks, opening the door. “I don’t have freaky bat hearing like Matt, here, but I’m pretty sure I heard you say that somebody tried to follow you home.”
“It’s not a big deal,” Karen says immediately.
“If he had a gun, it’s a big deal,” Matt says.
Foggy sucks in a breath. “Wait, wait, a gun? I definitely missed that part.”
“I didn’t see a gun,” Karen says. “I just...he looked like the kind of guy who might have one. He was wearing a shoulder holster.”
And how she knows what that looks like sounds like an interesting conversation, but one best saved for another day.
“Look,” Foggy is saying. “I know you’re Ms. Independent, which, by the way, totally admirable, but maybe you should let me or Matt walk you home tonight?”
“Matt’s blind,” Karen says, and her tone is...not dubious. Challenging, almost, which is interesting. Or possibly worrisome. “What’s he going to do?”
“You laugh, but he’s got a mean right hook,” Foggy says, and--right. He would know. Matt had somehow managed to forget that he took a swing at Foggy sometime during that first awful night after the fight with Nobu. He still doesn’t remember doing it, but that doesn’t mean that Foggy doesn’t. He does have a mean right hook; that part is perfectly true. Battlin’ Jack taught him how to throw a punch long before he fell into Stick’s clutches; before he lost his sight, even.
“My dad was a boxer,” he adds smoothly, out loud. “The offer is open, if you want it.”
Karen is silent long enough that he’s sure she’s going to refuse, but then-- “Yeah, okay,” she says. “Yeah. That would be nice.”
***
“I’m sorry,” he tells Foggy that afternoon, while Karen is downstairs at the deli.
“What for?”
“About the whole--” he balls his fist up, loosely, grimaces. “Hitting you. When you found me that night. I’m sorry.”
Foggy snorts. “Matt, this may shock you to hear, but I have actually been in a fistfight before. Which, okay, was in ninth grade, but still.”
“I still shouldn’t have--”
“You missed,” Foggy interrupts gently. His heart is steady. “Cracked a piece of molding, but you missed me. I said you had a mean right hook. I didn’t say you could aim particularly well.”
“I didn’t--?”
“You didn’t hit me. I’m surprised you didn’t break your knuckles.”
Matt breathes out a laugh, letting himself relax. “It’s all about technique.”
“Yeah? Maybe sometime you can teach me.”
Even a few months ago, he would have shot that idea down without a second thought. Now, though--he bites his lip, thinks about Claire telling him that he’s going to end up bloody and alone if he doesn’t start letting people in, and says, “Yeah. Maybe.”
***
The two of them end up walking Karen home together. She feeds them wine and some kind of complicated, delicious dish involving pasta and several different kinds of cheese, and Foggy says, “I could get used to bodyguard duty if this is the payment,” and it’s light and easy in a way things haven’t often been, lately.
Karen throws them out after dinner, saying she needs her beauty sleep, and on the front step, Foggy catches his elbow. His hand is warm through the layers of Matt’s shirt and jacket, and his voice is soft. “Hey. Be careful out there tonight, okay?”
“I will,” Matt says, and pulls his arm away before he can do something completely stupid. “I always am.”
Foggy snorts, but lets Matt go without argument.
Daredevil skulks the streets near Karen’s apartment for hours, but other than a couple of entirely unrelated muggings, he doesn’t encounter anything suspicious. That doesn’t, for some reason, actually make Matt feel any better.
FILL: leave the world outside 4/?
He knows Foggy loves him. But Foggy loves Karen, too, and Josie, and Brett; he loved Elena Cardenas with her sweet quick voice and her hands that always smelled like cocoa butter; he loves his mother and his father and his sisters. He still loves Marci, even after everything. Foggy loves people easily, fearlessly, in a way that Matt can admire but not emulate. It’s inexplicable that he loves Matt, but it’s not unique.
Foggy wants him, too, but he also turned him down, and the thing is, Matt isn’t even sure if he’s bothered by that because of his ego--he’s not exactly the playboy Foggy likes to make him out to be, but it’s not often that he’s flat-out rejected--or if it’s something else. Something like wanting to kiss Foggy again, to keep kissing him, to strip him out of the coarse broadcloth shirts he wears, to map the shape of his body, the dip and curve of his spine, and--
--and this is really not the kind of thing he needs to be thinking at work, even if Foggy isn’t in the same room as him. Matt can smell him, even from the other side of the office.
“Hey, do you have a minute?” Karen asks from the doorway, and he almost jumps out of his skin. “I’m sorry, did I--”
“It’s fine,” Matt says quickly, pressing his palms against the desk. “I was just thinking. What’s up?”
“I can come back later,” Karen says, and her heart is thudding in her chest and he can smell the ghost of whiskey on her breath, under the coffee and toothpaste. She isn’t drunk, but Karen has the same slightly unhealthy relationship with alcohol that Foggy does, and she probably had a shot before she left for work this morning, to steel herself for whatever it is she wants to tell him. It’s the sort of thing Matt always thinks he should scold about, but it’s not like he has a leg to stand on when it comes to self-destructive habits. “If you’re busy.”
“It’s fine, Karen,” he repeats, more gently this time. “Come in.”
She comes into the office and shuts the door behind her. It wouldn’t stop Matt from overhearing if he was in the other room, and honestly it probably wouldn’t stop Foggy, if he was paying attention; the walls aren’t exactly soundproof, but she apparently needs at least the illusion of privacy.
“What’s going on?” he asks again, when she doesn’t say anything.
“I--” she begins, then stops. Shakes her head. “Someone tried to follow me home last night.”
Matt feels himself go still at that, distraction evaporating. On the other side of the wall, he hears the rhythm of Foggy’s typing stop. “Tried?”
“I’m pretty sure I threw him off going through Chinatown, but--yeah.”
“Do you know why?” He’s fairly sure that Karen wouldn’t have come to him about some random creep; she’s pretty stubborn about handling that kind of thing on her own, even though Matt (and probably Foggy too, for that matter) would cheerfully beat to a pulp every asshole who cat-calls her on the street or gropes her on the subway.
“No,” she says immediately. Her heartbeat speeds up--a lie. She knows, or at least she has a pretty good idea. “But he wasn’t--you know how guys look when they want that kind of thing. Or, I guess you don’t,” she corrects quickly, and Matt’s not sure if she’s referring to his gender or his blindness or both. She’s right; he doesn’t know. But he can guess. “But he wasn’t like that. He was--professional.”
“Professional. How?”
“He stayed out of sight. He didn’t--he wasn’t trying to get me to notice him. I’ve had guys follow me on the street before, but they’re--they want attention, you know? This guy, he didn’t want me to notice him. And I’m pretty sure he was wearing a gun.”
“And you don’t want to go to the police,” Matt says. It’s not a question.
“I don’t trust the police. Not after what happened with Fisk.” A soft rustle of hair; she’s shaking her head. Her heart is still rabbit-quick. Not trusting the police might be part of it--a completely reasonable attitude, after everything that’s happened recently--but it isn’t everything. There’s something else complicating the issue, something she isn’t willing to tell him yet.
Matt is a lawyer, not a detective, but he knows a few things about getting information out of reluctant witnesses. Pushing her right now will get him nowhere.
“Okay,” he says, sliding his chair back and standing. “We’ll figure it out. You might want to let Foggy in on it, though.”
“Let me in on what?” Foggy calls from the other side of the door. “Because I have no idea what the two of you are talking about, obviously.”
Karen draws a sharp breath; Matt gives her his most disarming smile. “Thin walls.”
“You knew he was listening,” she accuses, but she doesn’t sound angry. Good.
“Just a guess,” Matt lies easily.
“Are you guys going to tell me what’s going on?” Foggy asks, opening the door. “I don’t have freaky bat hearing like Matt, here, but I’m pretty sure I heard you say that somebody tried to follow you home.”
“It’s not a big deal,” Karen says immediately.
“If he had a gun, it’s a big deal,” Matt says.
Foggy sucks in a breath. “Wait, wait, a gun? I definitely missed that part.”
“I didn’t see a gun,” Karen says. “I just...he looked like the kind of guy who might have one. He was wearing a shoulder holster.”
And how she knows what that looks like sounds like an interesting conversation, but one best saved for another day.
“Look,” Foggy is saying. “I know you’re Ms. Independent, which, by the way, totally admirable, but maybe you should let me or Matt walk you home tonight?”
“Matt’s blind,” Karen says, and her tone is...not dubious. Challenging, almost, which is interesting. Or possibly worrisome. “What’s he going to do?”
“You laugh, but he’s got a mean right hook,” Foggy says, and--right. He would know. Matt had somehow managed to forget that he took a swing at Foggy sometime during that first awful night after the fight with Nobu. He still doesn’t remember doing it, but that doesn’t mean that Foggy doesn’t. He does have a mean right hook; that part is perfectly true. Battlin’ Jack taught him how to throw a punch long before he fell into Stick’s clutches; before he lost his sight, even.
“My dad was a boxer,” he adds smoothly, out loud. “The offer is open, if you want it.”
Karen is silent long enough that he’s sure she’s going to refuse, but then-- “Yeah, okay,” she says. “Yeah. That would be nice.”
***
“I’m sorry,” he tells Foggy that afternoon, while Karen is downstairs at the deli.
“What for?”
“About the whole--” he balls his fist up, loosely, grimaces. “Hitting you. When you found me that night. I’m sorry.”
Foggy snorts. “Matt, this may shock you to hear, but I have actually been in a fistfight before. Which, okay, was in ninth grade, but still.”
“I still shouldn’t have--”
“You missed,” Foggy interrupts gently. His heart is steady. “Cracked a piece of molding, but you missed me. I said you had a mean right hook. I didn’t say you could aim particularly well.”
“I didn’t--?”
“You didn’t hit me. I’m surprised you didn’t break your knuckles.”
Matt breathes out a laugh, letting himself relax. “It’s all about technique.”
“Yeah? Maybe sometime you can teach me.”
Even a few months ago, he would have shot that idea down without a second thought. Now, though--he bites his lip, thinks about Claire telling him that he’s going to end up bloody and alone if he doesn’t start letting people in, and says, “Yeah. Maybe.”
***
The two of them end up walking Karen home together. She feeds them wine and some kind of complicated, delicious dish involving pasta and several different kinds of cheese, and Foggy says, “I could get used to bodyguard duty if this is the payment,” and it’s light and easy in a way things haven’t often been, lately.
Karen throws them out after dinner, saying she needs her beauty sleep, and on the front step, Foggy catches his elbow. His hand is warm through the layers of Matt’s shirt and jacket, and his voice is soft. “Hey. Be careful out there tonight, okay?”
“I will,” Matt says, and pulls his arm away before he can do something completely stupid. “I always am.”
Foggy snorts, but lets Matt go without argument.
Daredevil skulks the streets near Karen’s apartment for hours, but other than a couple of entirely unrelated muggings, he doesn’t encounter anything suspicious. That doesn’t, for some reason, actually make Matt feel any better.