“Matt!” he shouts, pounding on Matt’s door. “MATT! Matt, come on!”
He pauses and presses his ear to the door. Nothing. No sound, no movement, no nothing, zero, nada, zilch. It’s not a good sign. It might mean that Matt’s not inside, it might mean that he was inside but then left and that would be a Very Bad Thing.
Or maybe Matt’s hiding in his bedroom, huddled on the bed or in a corner, pretending not to hear Foggy and his calls, hoping that if he doesn’t answer the door, doesn’t make his presence known, Foggy will give up and leave.
Foggy will never ever give up on Matt.
“Matt!” Foggy knocks hard three more times. “Matt, it’s me, please open the door. Please, we need to--We need to talk, please, Matty.”
Still nothing. Time for Plan B. Mind made up, Foggy reaches into his bag and fishes out his set of keys to Matt’s apartment. He fumbles with finding the right one, then with pushing it into the keyhole. He turns it and the lock clicks open; Foggy opens the door and walks inside.
“Matt?” he asks into the quiet of the apartment.
No response. It appears no one is home. And it doesn't look like anyone's been home either. On the off-chance that Matt did something very much unlike him that's rash and irresponsible — because there is no precedent of Matt Murdock doing dumb and dangerous and reckless things on impulse, no sir, absolutely not — Foggy walks over to the cupboard under the stairs, takes the key from the under the hose, and opens the door. He holds his breath as he lifts the lid of the chest and peeks inside, then exhales slowly when he sees the Daredevil costume still inside.
And then gets scared again, because the fact that the costume is here doesn't mean Matt hasn't gone off to therapeutically beat up some criminals. He did use to go out in something that offered less protection than paintball gear.
Foggy closer the chest, closes the door and locks it, hides the key in its place, and moves to sit on Matt's new couch. It isn't as soft as the previous one, is much more uncomfortable and sleeping on it will be a pain.
He resolves to wait there until Matt comes back home.
***
Hey, Matt, it's me. I'm at your place, I let myself in, sorry about that. We need to talk, buddy, please call me back.
***
Me again. Matt, if this is about whatever my grandmother said to you, it doesn't matter. Don't listen to her, she's full of crap right now. I don't care what she said, but we really need to talk. I'm still at your place, I'm waiting for you. I made pancakes, your favourite, as we didn't actually get to eat anything at the party. See you soon.
***
Two hours later and he's still waiting.
***
Matt, it's me again. It's been three hours since you left Grams' house, where are you, buddy? Please pick up.
***
When the third hour comes and goes, he begins to worry that Matt's not going to come back home.
***
Me. Again. Which you probably already know. I just--I get it, you don't want to talk to me right now. It's fine. I'm going back to my place, so it's safe for you to go back home, I won't be there. Just please, call me or text me when you get there, I want to know you got there safely.
***
Matt. Matty, where are you? You're freaking me out, are you okay? Please, please call me, I don't know what's going on or where you are, please, I need to know that you're safe.
***
The sound of someone knocking on his door snaps him out of his reverie. He looks around his apartment for a moment, dazed, before connecting the sound with his front door. Matt, is his immediate thought, and he leaps off the sofa and makes it to the front door, which he opens with too much force. But it's not Matt waiting for him on the other side.
"You can't possibly tell me that you've been talking to someone for the past five hours," Jess tells him. She puts her hand on his chest and pushes him back, unceremoniously inviting herself in. She's holding a folder in her hand, one much thicker than the last one she gave Foggy.
"I've been trying to reach someone for the past five hours," he tells her as he closes the door behind her. When he gets back to his living room, Jess is already sitting on his couch, legs crossed, one brow arched.
"Boyfriend troubles?"
"He's not my boyfriend," Foggy says tiredly.
Jess tsks. "But it is about him." Foggy doesn't deny it, but doesn't confirm either. Jess sighs and pats the folder which she'd put on the sofa next to her. "I've been trying to call you all day," she says. "I have--something. Not sure if you're going to like it, but hey, I'm a private detective, if I got paid for information people liked, I'd starve to death."
She takes the folder and opens it, skims through the documents there. "It's confidential SHIELD info, so again, if anyone comes to arrest you, I was not involved. I'd hate to get on the wrong side of SHIELD and their Index."
"If anyone comes to arrest me, I don't know you," Foggy says. Truth be told, if anyone came to arrest him, they'd probably come because of a certain horned vigilante, not his P. I. neighbour.
"So remember when I texted you yesterday that your Stick's American?" Foggy nods. God. He cannot believe it was only yesterday. "There's a name attached to him in SHIELD's confidential database. By the way, for an espionage agency that suffered a crippling leak of all their documents last year, they have a lot of files that are confidential and sealed and haven't been leaked."
"SHIELD's keeping secrets from SHIELD, somehow I'm not surprised."
Jess nods. She clears her throat and flips some pages. "So. Your Stick. Born in 1924 in Bangor, Maine, under the legal name of Raymond Connor." Here Jess makes a small pause to gauge his reaction. "I didn't think much of it at first, not until I saw his marriage certificate, to one Joy Connor, née Meachum, and the birth certificate of his only daughter, Anna Faith Connor. That piqued my curiosity, as I recognised that name. So I checked." She takes a deep breath. "I'm sorry about this, I really am. But Stick's daughter Anna Faith Connor incidentally happens to be the same Anna Faith Connor who in 1979 married Edward Phillip Nelson. The same Anna Faith Nelson who happens to be your mother."
She closes the folder and patiently waits for him to react to the news. The lack of shouting and anger and denial must make her suspicious, because her eyes narrow. "But you already knew that."
"I--" Foggy runs a hand over his face. Fuck, he's tired. He can't believe that it's only been thirty hours since Jess visited him last, bringing the news of the Chaste and of crazy ninja death cults, and since Foggy talked her into finding out more. "I found out today. Stick--Ray came to my grandmother's birthday party."
Jess swears colourfully. "Fuck," she says. "Does it mean there's a conflict of interests here?"
Foggy frowns. "What?"
"Your case." Jess points at the high tower made of Foggy's research notes. "You've been working so hard on it, fuck. This is awful."
"Yeah."
Jess stands up and starts pacing. "But you don't have to resign, right?" she asks. "A conflict of interests exists if there's a risk that you would misrepresent your client because of your own interests, correct?"
"More or less," Foggy confirms. "There has to exist a substantial risk that the lawyer’s representation of the client would be materially and adversely affected by the lawyer’s own interests or by the lawyer’s duties to another current client, former client, or a third person. But Jess--"
"SHIELD's files painted Ray Connor as a pretty much an absentee father and grandfather, and a complete asshole, so I suppose you don't feel particularly attached to the guy," Jess carries on, both the talking and the pacing, completely ignoring Foggy for the time being. "So you could still helm that case." She stops and looks at him. "I mean, the parents hired you for a reason, and sure, part of it was probably the fact that your firm is new and cheap and you really need clients. But you--you actually care about this case, about justice, and that's fucking rare. I wouldn't want you to back out and I bet the parents wouldn't want it either."
"I'm not going to drop the case," Foggy tells her firmly. He's not. This, this changes nothing for him. It's still about Matt. He's doing this for Matt. He doesn't care if it's Grandpa Asshole Ray that he'll be putting in jail now, not just a faceless Stick figure. It makes him no difference. And it's not like anyone will shed a tear after the douchebag. Not the mum, not Candace, not Grams, definitely not Foggy. Good riddance, Ray. Or not. Yeah, let's go with 'not'.
"Good."
And then Jess does something unexpected. She strides over to Foggy and throws her hands around his neck, hugging him tightly. Foggy is momentarily too stunned to response, but reflexively wraps his own arms around her. It's kind of nice, he decides. Not as nice as hugging Matt, but still nice. Jess is--Jess is a nice person.
"You're a good guy, Nelson," she tells him. "A genuinely good guy. If you ever need help, with anything, Alias Investigations will be happy to help."
"Thank you, Jessica." Jess smiles. "And it's 'Foggy'. Friends get to call me 'Foggy'."
"Weird, but cute. Does it mean I'm now the kind of friend your not-boyfriend is?" she jokes. She then pats him on the arm awkwardly and steps away. Turns around and goes for his front door. When she gets there, she stops and turns her head to look at him once more. "I'm glad you're not going to drop this case due to ethical reasons or whatever. Because your client, that kid? They deserve someone who cares. They deserve to grow up knowing that the bastard that hurt them is going to rot in prison for the rest of his sorry life."
"Yeah," Foggy says quietly. "They do."
Jess nods at him and leaves his apartment. Foggy sinks back onto the sofa and hides his face in his hands.
***
Matty, it's me. I hope you're going to listen to all these messages and won't just delete them. I just wanted to say--
Message deleted.
***
Foggy picks up the moment his phone buzzes, without looking at the caller id. "Matt?"
"You haven't talked with him yet?" Grams asks and Foggy tries not to feel disappointed and angry, but he does.
"No," he tells her. "He's not picking up my calls."
"Damnit. Frannie, when you reach him, please tell him that I'm very, very sorry, that I overreacted and I regret that."
"Perhaps you should tell him yourself," Foggy says coldly and hangs up.
***
Hey, Matty, me again. We don't have to talk if you don't want to. I just--I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry for everything. I wish you'd pick up because I'm worried about you, I don't know where you are, I don't know if you're okay. I need to know that you're safe. But we don't have to talk, I understand that you don't want to. I'll, I'll stop calling, just this one more time. I hope I'll see you at work tomorrow. I love you, please, please be safe, Matt.
***
'One more time' is much easier said than done, Foggy realises half and hour later.
***
He dials Matt's number fully expecting the call to go to voicemail like all the previous ones. What he doesn't expect is to hear a muffled mechanical voice repeating his name over and over again close-by. Matt's phone. No way. Foggy lowers his own phone, thinking that he's imagining things, but no, he can still hear it, a repetition of Foggy, Foggy, Foggy, barely there, but there. His call goes to voicemail, so Foggy kills it and dials again. And there, he can hear it, on his right, coming from the direction of the half-open window--
by the fire escape.
Foggy disconnects and drops his phone, walks over to the window and opens it, sticks his head out. The pouring rain makes it hard to see and he has to squint, but he makes out a silhouette of a man, huddled on the opposite end of the platform, under Mr. Graham's window, hidden away from view and invisible from Foggy's apartment.
"Matt," he says and somehow manages to sound both concerned and relieved.
No reaction. Foggy frowns and opens the window wider, hauls himself over and onto the fire escape. He approaches Matt slowly, like a skittish animal; once closer, he notices that Matt's wearing the same jeans and shirt he did to Grams', and that he's shivering. He's sitting with his back propped by the railings, has his knees drawn up to his chest and his arms wrapped around them. He's not blue, but it's a close thing. And he doesn't have his glasses.
"Hey." Foggy crouches in front of him, hoping to any deity available that Mr. Graham doesn't decide to glance outside his window just now and doesn't mistake them for burglars. "Matt, hey."
Matt blinks and turns his head towards Foggy's voice. His movements are slow, sluggish. God knows how long he's been here. "Foggy?"
"Yeah," Foggy breathes. "Come on, Matt, it's cold, it's raining, you can't sit on my fire escape all night, even though it's a very nice fire escape. So up, Murdock." He puts his hands under Matt's arms and hauls him into a standing position. Matt sways a bit and Foggy is hit with a horrible sense of déjà vu. He's been in this situation before, not so long ago.
"Cold," Matt murmurs.
"Yeah," Foggy repeats, a little choked up. "We're going inside, okay, we'll be home in a second and I'll get you something warm to wear, we'll warm you up."
Matt hums instead of answering.
Foggy guides him towards his window and helps him into the apartment. He deposits Matt on the sofa and immediately closes the window, turns up the heating, and rushes to his bedroom to dig through his clothes in search of his warmest, fluffiest sweater and sweatpants. He comes back to the living room to find Matt unbuttoning his sodden shirt, his movements still sluggish, but at least he's not unresponsive. He hands Matt the sweatpants and the sweater — it will be too big for him, will hang loosely on Matt's thinner frame — and goes into the kitchenette to prepare tea.
"Thank you," Matt says quietly.
Foggy takes a steadying breath. "I've been calling you," he says as calmly as he can.
"I know."
"Where were you," Foggy glances at his watch, "for the past six hours?"
"I needed to clear my head."
That probably doesn't mean anything good. It might mean daredevilling. "Did you go parkouring in jeans and a shirt?" Foggy asks. He tries not to imagine the hundred accidents that might have happened and fails miserably.
"I needed to clear my head," Matt repeats, which isn't a confirmation, but isn't a denial either.
"I was worried."
"I know," Matt admits. He curls on the sofa with his legs drawn up again, and wraps himself tighter in the sweater, half-hides his face in the fluffy material of it. "I listened to your messages."
"Then why didn't you call me back?" The kettle starts whistling and Foggy takes it off the cooker. He throws a bag of some sort of vegan green tea or similar crap that Matt loves into a mug and pours boiling water. "For that matter, why didn't you just break into my house as usual? Why did you sit outside in such a downpour?"
"I wasn't sure you'd want me." Matt folds himself even further, which Foggy didn't think possible. "Is your grandmother very angry?"
Foggy has to shake his head, because there's no way he's hearing this right. "What?"
"I didn't know," Matt says, so softly and quietly that Foggy has to move closer to hear him. "I didn't know. I didn't know, but even if I did, I'd--I'd never--I never told--I was never spying on you, you have to--"
Fill: nothing he can't endure [10/?]
“Matt!” he shouts, pounding on Matt’s door. “MATT! Matt, come on!”
He pauses and presses his ear to the door. Nothing. No sound, no movement, no nothing, zero, nada, zilch. It’s not a good sign. It might mean that Matt’s not inside, it might mean that he was inside but then left and that would be a Very Bad Thing.
Or maybe Matt’s hiding in his bedroom, huddled on the bed or in a corner, pretending not to hear Foggy and his calls, hoping that if he doesn’t answer the door, doesn’t make his presence known, Foggy will give up and leave.
Foggy will never ever give up on Matt.
“Matt!” Foggy knocks hard three more times. “Matt, it’s me, please open the door. Please, we need to--We need to talk, please, Matty.”
Still nothing. Time for Plan B. Mind made up, Foggy reaches into his bag and fishes out his set of keys to Matt’s apartment. He fumbles with finding the right one, then with pushing it into the keyhole. He turns it and the lock clicks open; Foggy opens the door and walks inside.
“Matt?” he asks into the quiet of the apartment.
No response. It appears no one is home. And it doesn't look like anyone's been home either. On the off-chance that Matt did something very much unlike him that's rash and irresponsible — because there is no precedent of Matt Murdock doing dumb and dangerous and reckless things on impulse, no sir, absolutely not — Foggy walks over to the cupboard under the stairs, takes the key from the under the hose, and opens the door. He holds his breath as he lifts the lid of the chest and peeks inside, then exhales slowly when he sees the Daredevil costume still inside.
And then gets scared again, because the fact that the costume is here doesn't mean Matt hasn't gone off to therapeutically beat up some criminals. He did use to go out in something that offered less protection than paintball gear.
Foggy closer the chest, closes the door and locks it, hides the key in its place, and moves to sit on Matt's new couch. It isn't as soft as the previous one, is much more uncomfortable and sleeping on it will be a pain.
He resolves to wait there until Matt comes back home.
***
Hey, Matt, it's me. I'm at your place, I let myself in, sorry about that. We need to talk, buddy, please call me back.
***
Me again. Matt, if this is about whatever my grandmother said to you, it doesn't matter. Don't listen to her, she's full of crap right now. I don't care what she said, but we really need to talk. I'm still at your place, I'm waiting for you. I made pancakes, your favourite, as we didn't actually get to eat anything at the party. See you soon.
***
Two hours later and he's still waiting.
***
Matt, it's me again. It's been three hours since you left Grams' house, where are you, buddy? Please pick up.
***
When the third hour comes and goes, he begins to worry that Matt's not going to come back home.
***
Me. Again. Which you probably already know. I just--I get it, you don't want to talk to me right now. It's fine. I'm going back to my place, so it's safe for you to go back home, I won't be there. Just please, call me or text me when you get there, I want to know you got there safely.
***
Matt. Matty, where are you? You're freaking me out, are you okay? Please, please call me, I don't know what's going on or where you are, please, I need to know that you're safe.
***
The sound of someone knocking on his door snaps him out of his reverie. He looks around his apartment for a moment, dazed, before connecting the sound with his front door. Matt, is his immediate thought, and he leaps off the sofa and makes it to the front door, which he opens with too much force. But it's not Matt waiting for him on the other side.
"You can't possibly tell me that you've been talking to someone for the past five hours," Jess tells him. She puts her hand on his chest and pushes him back, unceremoniously inviting herself in. She's holding a folder in her hand, one much thicker than the last one she gave Foggy.
"I've been trying to reach someone for the past five hours," he tells her as he closes the door behind her. When he gets back to his living room, Jess is already sitting on his couch, legs crossed, one brow arched.
"Boyfriend troubles?"
"He's not my boyfriend," Foggy says tiredly.
Jess tsks. "But it is about him." Foggy doesn't deny it, but doesn't confirm either. Jess sighs and pats the folder which she'd put on the sofa next to her. "I've been trying to call you all day," she says. "I have--something. Not sure if you're going to like it, but hey, I'm a private detective, if I got paid for information people liked, I'd starve to death."
She takes the folder and opens it, skims through the documents there. "It's confidential SHIELD info, so again, if anyone comes to arrest you, I was not involved. I'd hate to get on the wrong side of SHIELD and their Index."
"If anyone comes to arrest me, I don't know you," Foggy says. Truth be told, if anyone came to arrest him, they'd probably come because of a certain horned vigilante, not his P. I. neighbour.
"So remember when I texted you yesterday that your Stick's American?" Foggy nods. God. He cannot believe it was only yesterday. "There's a name attached to him in SHIELD's confidential database. By the way, for an espionage agency that suffered a crippling leak of all their documents last year, they have a lot of files that are confidential and sealed and haven't been leaked."
"SHIELD's keeping secrets from SHIELD, somehow I'm not surprised."
Jess nods. She clears her throat and flips some pages. "So. Your Stick. Born in 1924 in Bangor, Maine, under the legal name of Raymond Connor." Here Jess makes a small pause to gauge his reaction. "I didn't think much of it at first, not until I saw his marriage certificate, to one Joy Connor, née Meachum, and the birth certificate of his only daughter, Anna Faith Connor. That piqued my curiosity, as I recognised that name. So I checked." She takes a deep breath. "I'm sorry about this, I really am. But Stick's daughter Anna Faith Connor incidentally happens to be the same Anna Faith Connor who in 1979 married Edward Phillip Nelson. The same Anna Faith Nelson who happens to be your mother."
She closes the folder and patiently waits for him to react to the news. The lack of shouting and anger and denial must make her suspicious, because her eyes narrow. "But you already knew that."
"I--" Foggy runs a hand over his face. Fuck, he's tired. He can't believe that it's only been thirty hours since Jess visited him last, bringing the news of the Chaste and of crazy ninja death cults, and since Foggy talked her into finding out more. "I found out today. Stick--Ray came to my grandmother's birthday party."
Jess swears colourfully. "Fuck," she says. "Does it mean there's a conflict of interests here?"
Foggy frowns. "What?"
"Your case." Jess points at the high tower made of Foggy's research notes. "You've been working so hard on it, fuck. This is awful."
"Yeah."
Jess stands up and starts pacing. "But you don't have to resign, right?" she asks. "A conflict of interests exists if there's a risk that you would misrepresent your client because of your own interests, correct?"
"More or less," Foggy confirms. "There has to exist a substantial risk that the lawyer’s representation of the client would be materially and adversely affected by the lawyer’s own interests or by the lawyer’s duties to another current client, former client, or a third person. But Jess--"
"SHIELD's files painted Ray Connor as a pretty much an absentee father and grandfather, and a complete asshole, so I suppose you don't feel particularly attached to the guy," Jess carries on, both the talking and the pacing, completely ignoring Foggy for the time being. "So you could still helm that case." She stops and looks at him. "I mean, the parents hired you for a reason, and sure, part of it was probably the fact that your firm is new and cheap and you really need clients. But you--you actually care about this case, about justice, and that's fucking rare. I wouldn't want you to back out and I bet the parents wouldn't want it either."
"I'm not going to drop the case," Foggy tells her firmly. He's not. This, this changes nothing for him. It's still about Matt. He's doing this for Matt. He doesn't care if it's Grandpa Asshole Ray that he'll be putting in jail now, not just a faceless Stick figure. It makes him no difference. And it's not like anyone will shed a tear after the douchebag. Not the mum, not Candace, not Grams, definitely not Foggy. Good riddance, Ray. Or not. Yeah, let's go with 'not'.
"Good."
And then Jess does something unexpected. She strides over to Foggy and throws her hands around his neck, hugging him tightly. Foggy is momentarily too stunned to response, but reflexively wraps his own arms around her. It's kind of nice, he decides. Not as nice as hugging Matt, but still nice. Jess is--Jess is a nice person.
"You're a good guy, Nelson," she tells him. "A genuinely good guy. If you ever need help, with anything, Alias Investigations will be happy to help."
"Thank you, Jessica." Jess smiles. "And it's 'Foggy'. Friends get to call me 'Foggy'."
"Weird, but cute. Does it mean I'm now the kind of friend your not-boyfriend is?" she jokes. She then pats him on the arm awkwardly and steps away. Turns around and goes for his front door. When she gets there, she stops and turns her head to look at him once more. "I'm glad you're not going to drop this case due to ethical reasons or whatever. Because your client, that kid? They deserve someone who cares. They deserve to grow up knowing that the bastard that hurt them is going to rot in prison for the rest of his sorry life."
"Yeah," Foggy says quietly. "They do."
Jess nods at him and leaves his apartment. Foggy sinks back onto the sofa and hides his face in his hands.
***
Matty, it's me. I hope you're going to listen to all these messages and won't just delete them. I just wanted to say--
Message deleted.
***
Foggy picks up the moment his phone buzzes, without looking at the caller id. "Matt?"
"You haven't talked with him yet?" Grams asks and Foggy tries not to feel disappointed and angry, but he does.
"No," he tells her. "He's not picking up my calls."
"Damnit. Frannie, when you reach him, please tell him that I'm very, very sorry, that I overreacted and I regret that."
"Perhaps you should tell him yourself," Foggy says coldly and hangs up.
***
Hey, Matty, me again. We don't have to talk if you don't want to. I just--I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry for everything. I wish you'd pick up because I'm worried about you, I don't know where you are, I don't know if you're okay. I need to know that you're safe. But we don't have to talk, I understand that you don't want to. I'll, I'll stop calling, just this one more time. I hope I'll see you at work tomorrow. I love you, please, please be safe, Matt.
***
'One more time' is much easier said than done, Foggy realises half and hour later.
***
He dials Matt's number fully expecting the call to go to voicemail like all the previous ones. What he doesn't expect is to hear a muffled mechanical voice repeating his name over and over again close-by. Matt's phone. No way. Foggy lowers his own phone, thinking that he's imagining things, but no, he can still hear it, a repetition of Foggy, Foggy, Foggy, barely there, but there. His call goes to voicemail, so Foggy kills it and dials again. And there, he can hear it, on his right, coming from the direction of the half-open window--
by the fire escape.
Foggy disconnects and drops his phone, walks over to the window and opens it, sticks his head out. The pouring rain makes it hard to see and he has to squint, but he makes out a silhouette of a man, huddled on the opposite end of the platform, under Mr. Graham's window, hidden away from view and invisible from Foggy's apartment.
"Matt," he says and somehow manages to sound both concerned and relieved.
No reaction. Foggy frowns and opens the window wider, hauls himself over and onto the fire escape. He approaches Matt slowly, like a skittish animal; once closer, he notices that Matt's wearing the same jeans and shirt he did to Grams', and that he's shivering. He's sitting with his back propped by the railings, has his knees drawn up to his chest and his arms wrapped around them. He's not blue, but it's a close thing. And he doesn't have his glasses.
"Hey." Foggy crouches in front of him, hoping to any deity available that Mr. Graham doesn't decide to glance outside his window just now and doesn't mistake them for burglars. "Matt, hey."
Matt blinks and turns his head towards Foggy's voice. His movements are slow, sluggish. God knows how long he's been here. "Foggy?"
"Yeah," Foggy breathes. "Come on, Matt, it's cold, it's raining, you can't sit on my fire escape all night, even though it's a very nice fire escape. So up, Murdock." He puts his hands under Matt's arms and hauls him into a standing position. Matt sways a bit and Foggy is hit with a horrible sense of déjà vu. He's been in this situation before, not so long ago.
"Cold," Matt murmurs.
"Yeah," Foggy repeats, a little choked up. "We're going inside, okay, we'll be home in a second and I'll get you something warm to wear, we'll warm you up."
Matt hums instead of answering.
Foggy guides him towards his window and helps him into the apartment. He deposits Matt on the sofa and immediately closes the window, turns up the heating, and rushes to his bedroom to dig through his clothes in search of his warmest, fluffiest sweater and sweatpants. He comes back to the living room to find Matt unbuttoning his sodden shirt, his movements still sluggish, but at least he's not unresponsive. He hands Matt the sweatpants and the sweater — it will be too big for him, will hang loosely on Matt's thinner frame — and goes into the kitchenette to prepare tea.
"Thank you," Matt says quietly.
Foggy takes a steadying breath. "I've been calling you," he says as calmly as he can.
"I know."
"Where were you," Foggy glances at his watch, "for the past six hours?"
"I needed to clear my head."
That probably doesn't mean anything good. It might mean daredevilling. "Did you go parkouring in jeans and a shirt?" Foggy asks. He tries not to imagine the hundred accidents that might have happened and fails miserably.
"I needed to clear my head," Matt repeats, which isn't a confirmation, but isn't a denial either.
"I was worried."
"I know," Matt admits. He curls on the sofa with his legs drawn up again, and wraps himself tighter in the sweater, half-hides his face in the fluffy material of it. "I listened to your messages."
"Then why didn't you call me back?" The kettle starts whistling and Foggy takes it off the cooker. He throws a bag of some sort of vegan green tea or similar crap that Matt loves into a mug and pours boiling water. "For that matter, why didn't you just break into my house as usual? Why did you sit outside in such a downpour?"
"I wasn't sure you'd want me." Matt folds himself even further, which Foggy didn't think possible. "Is your grandmother very angry?"
Foggy has to shake his head, because there's no way he's hearing this right. "What?"
"I didn't know," Matt says, so softly and quietly that Foggy has to move closer to hear him. "I didn't know. I didn't know, but even if I did, I'd--I'd never--I never told--I was never spying on you, you have to--"