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daredevilkink2015-07-13 09:00 am
ddk_mod) wrote in daredevilkink2015-07-13 09:00 am
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Prompt Post #5
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Fill: nothing he can't endure [7/?]
(Anonymous) 2015-08-26 05:04 pm (UTC)(link)Candace lives under the illusion that she’s just so quirky and funny and charming. She’s none of those things.
The umbrella is big enough to fit both him and Matt, though.
It's a shame that it had to rain, Foggy muses as he walks to Matt's. Matt lives pretty much on the opposite side of Hell's Kitchen from him, but it only makes for a ten-minute-long walk, God bless the size of their neighbourhood. Grams lives further away, in Harlem, half an hour by subway, and absolutely refuses to leave. That was Joy Connor for you, worse yet than her grandson and it was Foggy who was called 'stubborn'. Joy Connor has lived in Harlem since she moved to New York in the 60s, she survived the riots, the crime and even the Hulk, and was not going to leave her home until the day she died, no matter how much worry she caused her daughter. Or at least that's what she claimed.
Foggy didn't complain; with his parents — well, his dad, he was the one who could cook actual food in this family, mum was only good for pastries — holed up in Trenton, the fact that Grams and her splendid cooking skills were a mere trip on the C line away was a blessing, some times. Joy Connor living in Harlem and willing to cook for her only grandson whenever he called were one of the reasons Foggy and Matt didn't starve to death during their second year.
She had them over for dinner a lot during that year. And she adored Matt.
Foggy knocks on Matt's door and waits for him to open. He has a spare key now — insisted that he should, for emergencies, and the next day Matt handed him a complete set, lips pursed, expression tight, no comment — but he's not going to just start letting himself in, hello, he knows what privacy means, not like a certain someone who seems to think that because he can open Foggy's living room window from the fire escape, he should every time a fancy strikes.
"Ready?" Foggy asks cheerfully when Matt cracks the door open.
Matt lets him in. "Yeah," he says. "I just need to grab our present, wait a moment..."
He disappears through the still broken door leading to his bedroom. Foggy looks around, taking in the changes, and realises that he hasn't stepped into Matt's apartment since the day he found out about Matt's after-hours activities. The knowledge that the last time he was here, he did everything he could to hurt his best friend sits ill with him, twists his insides into knots of disgust and shame.
"You alright?" Matt's voice comes from the bedroom. "Your heartbeat spiked."
"I'm fine," Foggy lies and Matt tactfully doesn't call him out on it. "Nice table."
There is indeed a new coffee table, between two armchairs and a sofa that's also new. The old one was probably blood-stained beyond saving. Foggy wonders, for a moment, about how Matt got rid of it. What did he tell the crew that came to pick the old one up? Did he try to claim that it was spilt wine? Matt would.
"Thanks." Matt appears in the bedroom doorway holding his cane in one hand, a slim velvet box in the other. It's bright red. Foggy wonders if the shop assistant informed Matt of that. "Karen helped me pick it."
"That explains why it's nice," Foggy jokes, and the corner of Matt's mouth tugs upwards. "You never told me what happened to the old one."
It immediately falls back down and Matt purses his lips, thins them almost to the point of non-existence. Well then. Foggy's not getting an answer to that today. Instead he extends his hand and takes the box from Matt, puts it into his bag, and gestures at the door. "Shall we? We need to catch the next train unless we want to be late and give Mum another reason to kill me."
"Just you?"
"Please, she loves you too much. Me? Pff. She has Cande as the back-up kid, while you're irreplaceable."
That at least makes Matt smile again.
***
They manage to catch the next C train and settle comfortably — or as comfortably as you can get on public transport — for a half-an-hour-long journey to Harlem. Matt scoops close to Foggy, presses to his side, and puts his head on Foggy's shoulder. That's--he doesn't do that, usually. It's weird.
Foggy lets him.
He's always known about Matt's particular brand of distaste for the subway, but now he had the context for it and knew why. It wasn't claustrophobia, as he assumed initially, though he was fairly certain that was a contributing factor. But with Matt's heightened senses the subway must be hell: the smells, the noise, all those people crammed in one small confined space. Foggy didn't like the subway for those reasons, so it stood to think that Matt would hate it and be overwhelmed by it.
If it helps him to put his head on his friend's shoulder, Foggy wasn't about to deny him that. He rather preferred to think that Matt doing that showed that Matt trusted him to understand.
And he did. Sort of. Tried to, at the very least, and therefore no one should criticise him for it.
He rests his cheek against the top of Matt's mop of damp dark hair, already curling at the end — seriously, Matt's hair is ridiculous, Foggy has witnessed it making a hairdresser cry — and takes Matt's hand in his. Turns it over, so that they're palm to palm. "You don't look well," he murmurs. It's true enough, but has less to do with injuries — Matt doesn't have a lot of those, not in visible places at least, and the ones he has are old and yellowish — and more with the general look of a person who's not well-rested. "Long night?"
He hopes the answer is 'no' and for once someone must love him, because Matt sighs and says "No." Foggy feels good for about three seconds before Matt adds, "just... Couldn't sleep. Yesterday."
Which might have something to do with Foggy reading him all his files and research notes. And fuck, Foggy should have known it was a bad idea. Matt asked him to, so what. Matt didn't have the best instincts when it came to self-care and self-preservation, and was self-destructive enough to ask for something that could possibly fuck with his already crap mental state. It was Foggy's job to know better.
He was really bad at his job.
"Then it's a good thing there will be pie," Foggy tells him. "I have it on good authority that Grams made her famous pecan pie."
There is pie at Grams' house, a fact of which Matt informs him as they stand in front of Grams' door, waiting to be let in.
"It's ridiculous that you can smell that," Foggy murmurs.
"There's also tomato soup and I think there will be your grandmother's cheese and ham pancakes," Matt adds, grinning.
Foggy shakes his head fondly. "You're showing off."
Matt opens his mouth to say something, he's frowning and his fingers tap-tap a rhythm on his cane, but he doesn't, in the end, closes his mouth as Grams' door opens and they're faced with Grams in all her jeans-and-leather-clad glory.
"Frannie!" she exclaims and Foggy winces. She's one of only two people in his whole family that refuses to stop calling him that, and the other person is so irrelevant that it's not even worth remembering. "Oh, and Matthew, I'm so glad that you've made it."
She steps closer to them and throws her arms out, wraps one around the respective necks of each of them, and places one kiss first to Foggy's, then to Matt's temple.
"Thank you for inviting me, Mrs. Connor," Matt says once Grams lets him go. His cheeks are already way past pink. If this trend keeps up with both of Foggy's parents, Matt's going to end up red as a beetroot in seven minutes tops.
"Pff," Grams waves a hand dismissively, "you don't need to be invited, Matthew, you're practically family. You would be if Frannie here--"
"Happy birthday, Grams," Foggy interrupts her with the wishes, delivered perhaps a bit more forcefully than they ought to be. He fishes for the velvet box in his bag and takes it out. "We got something for you."
Grams takes the box. "That's a first time I was given a present in the doorway, but thank you, darlings, still." She finally steps back into the house and lets them in. "I'll open it after dinner, with the rest of the presents."
"Sure thing, Grams," Foggy says at the same time as Matt's "I hope you like this, Mrs. Connor".
Grams pats Matt's cheek. "Someone here has good manners," she says as she walks past them towards the living room, all the while glaring daggers at Foggy. Foggy only rolls his eyes. Grams' death stare stopped having an impact when he was a junior in high school.
"Boys!"
Anna Nelson bursts into the hall from the kitchen and charges at them. She's wearing an apron and her hands look like they're covered in flour — no, they're definitely covered in flour, she has some smudged on her left cheek too — and it still doesn't stop her from attempting to hug them to death. Correction, to hug Matt to death, because it's Matt that Anna envelopes in a tight hug and kisses on the forehead while Foggy stands behind them, tapping his foot like a bored and forgotten third wheel.
"Oh, Matty, hello." Anna smiles and cups Matt's cheeks, smearing the flour on them in the process. "It's so good to see you, sweetheart, it's been so long that I was beginning to worry that Franklin was keeping you away."
Matt stammers and doesn't manage to reply coherently. Beetroot level achieved, and he hasn't even said 'hello' to Foggy's dad yet.
"Hi, mum," Foggy waves at Anna behind Matt's back. "This is your son, Franklin Phillip, remember me? It's lovely to see you too, by the way."
Anna rolls her eyes. "I've seen you last week, Foggy. Matt I haven't seen in more than three months, let me enjoy the moment." She smiles at Matt again, despite knowing that Matt can't see it. But Matt has to somehow sense it, because he smiles back. He always smiles back at Anna, never misses a single smile, and it doesn't happen with anyone else, ever. Foggy's starting to wonder if his mother and Matt have some weird psychic connection going on. It would explain so much.
Anna eventually gets round to pecking Foggy on a cheek. But that's it, that's all Foggy gets. Anna truly does love Matt most. "I wouldn't go to the living room," she tells them when Matt takes Foggy's arm and Foggy starts them towards said room. "Unless you want to get stuck until dinner with Grams' hunting club friends."
They definitely don’t want to get stuck with Grams’ hunting club friends until dinner. Those are all elderly ladies, some of which Grams knows from way back when she used to live in the most Lovecraftian part of Massachusetts. Grams took him there for holiday once, when he was ten; they met up with some of Grams friends and their equally terrified grandkids, and it was hell. Still the creepiest moment of Foggy’s life.
“That’s not a good idea,” Foggy says slowly, thinking about Grams creepy hunting friends and their now grown-up grandkids. Grams and her friends would probably end up trying to either set him and Matt up with some of those grandkids — and they’re mostly really nice people, Foggy is Facebook friends with more than a half of them — or trying to convince them that spending two weeks a year in wilderness, in the middle of nothing, and having to hunt for your own food was good for the soul.
He knows which one Matt would consider worse.
“Candace is hiding upstairs,” Anna says, pointing at the staircase.
“And where’s dad?”
Anna’s lips twitch. “Mrs. Gershwin said there wasn’t enough beer and he volunteered to go and buy more,” she says. “I doubt he’ll be back within the next hour. You know that Grams’ friends creep him out.”
“Him and me both,” Foggy murmurs. He turns to Matt and tugs at his sleeve. “Come on,” he says. “Upstairs. It’s better to suffer Cande than the hunting club.”
They find Candace in the spare bedroom that Grams turned into a mini-library/study. It’s easily the nicest room in the whole house and Foggy loved to hide in here, surrounded by all the books, when he was younger. Even when he was Candace’s age, he’d still hole himself up here with a vacuum flask full of cocoa and go through Grams’ Stephen King collection.
Candace is not a Stephen King fan. She’s sitting with her knees bent on the windowsill, head bent over something that, judging by the cover that Foggy is able to peek at at this angle, is The Big Book of Pain that Grams got her for Christmas two years ago.
“Do you have some sort of a torture kink?” Foggy asks and that snaps Candace out of her little torture world. She raises her head and grins at them both when she notices them standing in the doorway.
“Mere curiosity,” she says, closing the book. “I’m thinking about going for pathology, it might be useful.”
Foggy makes a disgusted face. “Ugh, pathology. Do yourself a favour and choose something else, Cande, I’m saying this as a concerned older brother. Perhaps a fitness instructor? Can’t let all that cheerleading go to waste.”
She gives him the middle finger. Next to Foggy, Matt covers his mouth and coughs awkwardly, and that cough sounds more as if Matt was choking on a hot potato or was desperately trying not to laugh. It occurs to Foggy just then that Matt has just witnessed Foggy’s baby sister flipping him off and could actually see it. Perfect.
“Hi, Matt,” Candace greets Matt warmly. She doesn’t blush nor tugs at her hair with her eyes lowered, so Foggy takes it to mean that she truly is over the crush-on-brother’s-best-friend phase of her teen years. Jesus, they really grow up so fast.
“Hi, Candace.”
“Did you get ambushed by the hunting club ladies?”
“Nah.” Foggy shakes his head and settles down on the floor close to his sister, with his back against the half-wall. He pushes at the nearest chair with his foot and it skids closer to Matt, who nods his thanks and sits down as well. “We escaped before they swarmed us.”
“Lucky you.” Candace closes the book. “They grabbed me before dad told me to go and hide here. Mrs. Palomas’ oldest grandson just got divorced, she handed me six pictures of him and said that he’s a nice boy.”
“Stewie?” Foggy asks, to which Candace nods. “But he’s my age.”
Candace nods again. “That’s what I told her, that it’d be like going on a date with an ancient relic.” Matt laughs again. Traitor. And Cande, the asshole.
“Jerk,” Foggy mutters.
“Doof,” Candace shoots back. “Anyway, I told Mrs. Palomas that I’m currently not interested, and even if I were, it wouldn’t be in Stewie, I still remember that time he and you--“
“Okay, thank you for that,” Foggy interrupts her when he notices that Matt cocked his head in a manner that usually means that he’s interested. Tough luck, Foggy and Stewie’s weird adventures will have to remain a mystery for now. “How’s Tom?”
“Tom who?”
Foggy frowns. Was it Tim? No. He’s pretty sure Cande’s boyfriend was named Tom. “Tom, your boyfriend Tom. That Tom.”
Fill: nothing he can't endure [8/?]
(Anonymous) 2015-08-26 05:05 pm (UTC)(link)“Good for you!” Foggy raises his hand and Candace gives him a high-five. She’ll be fine in college. And if she’s not, Matt’ll probably take it upon himself to make sure that she is if he finds out. Which probably won’t end well, for anyone involved, so Foggy should make sure that Matt doesn’t find out.
Matt’s frowning. “What?” Foggy asks.
The frown deepens. “I think your mum’s calling you.”
He says it the exact same moment Anna yells, most likely from the stairs, “FRANKLIN NELSON! COME HERE THIS INSTANT!”
Candace snickers. “Yeah, Foggy, your mum’s calling you.”
Foggy gets up with a groan. “Assholes, the lot of you.”
He exits the study and goes downstairs, where he barely manages not to collide with Mrs. Gershwin and her beer bottle. He excuses himself and darts into the relative safety of Grams’ kitchen, which incidentally is the second-largest room in the whole house. Life priorities according to Joy Connor.
“What?” he asks his mother.
Anna doesn’t look amused. “I’ve been calling you.”
“Well, excuse me, I’ve only been catching up with the one family member that seems happy to see me.” Anna rolls her eyes and turns back towards the counter. “So. Tom?”
“Ugh.” Anna shudders. “Don’t even remind me of that kid. I’m so glad your sister was smart enough to dump his sorry ass.”
Foggy shoves hands into the pockets of his jeans. “She wasn’t smart enough not to date him in the first place.”
Anna takes two mugs out of the overhead cupboard and fills them with drinks. “Not everyone can have such a good taste when it comes to partners as you do,” she says, casually.
“Yeah,” Foggy agrees before the whole meaning of that sentence dawns on him. Good taste? What? He squints his eyes. “You never liked Marci.”
She somehow manages to fit six pistachio cupcakes on the tiniest plate Foggy’s ever seen. “Marci’s an exception.”
“You weren’t overly fond of Debs either.”
She shrugs and turns back to him, and finally takes a proper look at him. She must not like what she saw, because she frowns. “Are you alright, honey?” she asks, concerned. “You look--pale.”
That would be the result of months of worry about Matt and the more recent hard work and sleepless nights and coffee and anger that went into his research. “I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?” Anna presses. “Perhaps something’s wrong, when was the last time--“
“I’m fine, mum.”
“Franklin, and what if it’s b--“
“Mum,” Foggy interrupts her. Why do people keep insisting on trying to talk to him about things he doesn’t want to talk about. “I have an appointment scheduled for next month. I’m fine, just tired, we have lots of work. Can we please not talk about this here, now? Grams has guests.”
She squints. “Foggy, everyone here--“
“Not everyone.”
She squints harder. And then it hits her, what he means, and her eyes widen in surprise. “Franklin,” she hisses, “are you lying to him?”
Foggy huffs, irritated. “I’m not lying, mum, I just never said, it’s never been relevant--“
“So you’re waiting for it to become relevant?” she carries on in that hissing tone. “That’s ridiculous, Franklin, I’m disappointed--“
“It was never important, and Matt has worse problems anyway.” If only she knew just how much worse. “Can we argue about this later, when there aren’t twenty people around to overhear?”
“Franklin--“
“Mother. Seriously. Later.”
“She sighs dramatically and raises her hands in defeat. “Fine,” she snaps. She turns to the counter, picks the mugs and hands them to him. “Honey rose tea, for you and Matt.” She turns back again and takes the tiny plate. “And cupcakes for the three of you.”
“Thanks, mum.”
She waves her hand. “Just go.”
He balances the plate full of cupcakes on top of one of the mugs and manages to get it upstairs without dropping anything, thank God for the practice he had while working part-time at a restaurant while in high school.
“Mum sends her love in the form of baked goods,” he announces loudly as he pushes the door open and walks back into the study. He’s greeted by two cut-off giggles. Matt moved closer to Candace, and they’re sitting with their heads bowed towards each other and are laughing under their breaths. Great. Just great.
“Did you and Stewie Morris really dress up as Sailor Moon characters for Halloween?” Matt asks. He’s trying to keep a straight face, he really is, so kudos for that.
“Yes we did,” Foggy admits and Matt cracks. Which is funny in itself, because Foggy’s not entirely sure Matt even knows what do the Sailor Moon costumes look like. “And it was awesome. I’m handing you a mug,” he says. “Honey rose tea, because mum likes you better.”
“Thanks,” Matt says and takes the mug. His fingers brush Foggy’s and he smiles. “Why Sailor Moon?”
Foggy shrugs. Matt probably expects an answer like ‘I lost a bet’ or ‘it was a dare’. It’s neither. “Because why the hell not?”
“Holy shit,” Candace says suddenly.
“Me being into anime is hardly a revelation, Cande,” Foggy says, rolling his eyes. But Candace’s not looking at him, or at Matt, even. She’s staring out of the window and at the street.
“It’s not that,” she breathes, and she’s pressing her face so close to the window that the glass fogs. “It’ just--I think--Dick’s here.”
Foggy frowns and moves closer to the window. “You mean great-uncle Richard? Isn’t he dead?”
“Not great-uncle Dick, he’s most definitely dead. It’s Grandpa Asshole.”
“No way,” Foggy breathes. He presses closer to Candace, to look out of the window as well. “It can’t be.”
“It is.”
“Grandpa Asshole?” Matt asks.
Foggy and Candace share a look. Right, Matt doesn’t know the story of Grandpa Asshole. Foggy waves his hand at Candace, giving her permission to share this story.
“So you know Grandfather Nelson, right?” is what she starts with. Matt nods. Of course he knows Grandfather Nelson, he went on family holiday with the Foggy and Cande during the summer break between years two and three, and he had the pleasure of meeting Grandfather Nelson and being subjected to his hardcore fishing lessons. “Well, people tend to have two grandfathers.”
“I’m aware,” Matt replies, clearly amused.
“Grandpa Asshole is Grams’ douchebag ex-husband,” Candace says and Foggy has to fight the urge to moan. She blew the story, like, for God’s sake, Candace, how could you blow it.
“See, Grams used to live in Massachusetts,” Foggy picks the story up, because clearly Candace is not to be trusted with it. “She had this husband. Weird guy, kept creepy company and would disappear for days on end into the woods or the mountains.”
“Okay.”
“So eventually Grams has had enough. She kicked the dude out, divorced him and moved to New York,” Foggy continues, skipping for now all the stories of Grandpa Ray teaching mum to punch people when she was four. He’ll fill Matt in later. “Ray disappeared completely for years and everyone thought that was the last they’d seen of him.”
“But bitch it wasn’t the last they’d seen of him,” Candace picks up. “Sadly. It’s a dark family secret, Matt. Grandpa Asshole pops up once every few years, appears out of the blue, annoys the hell out of half of us, offends the other half, and then disappears again. For example, he came to mum’s wedding. It almost resulted in the whole thing being called off.”
“Next time he shows up, I’m five,” Foggy says. “I think Grams threatened him with her hunting knives then, but I’m a bit fuzzy on the details.”
“Next time was when Foggy was twelve and I was three,” Candace chips in. “Ray comes over, saying that he was ‘in the neighbourhood’ for some reason--“
“It was before we moved to Trenton,” Foggy clarifies, “so at the time we were still living in Hell’s Kitchen.”
“--and offers to take us to the park. Mum was less than thrilled with the idea.”
“She pulled a shotgun on him.”
Matt’s jaw drops. “What?”
Candace laughs. “We shit you not, that’s my earliest memory, mum running after Ray with a shotgun. She still owned one, at the time. It was so badass.”
“Then Ray completely ignored us for the next, what, fifteen years? Eighteen. Eighteen years.”
“He called a few months back, before my birthday. Apparently something chased him to New York again.” Candace shrugs. “I don’t know what he wanted, I told him to fuck off and hang up.”
“He’s an evil, creepy guy that everyone hates,” Foggy sums up. “Never gave a single shit about us. In fact I’m fairly certain that he’s incapable of experiencing any higher emotion.”
“And he’s here, now,” Matt says.
“Yup,” Candace confirms.
“Apparently,” Foggy says. Something occurs to him. “Someone should probably go downstairs and check on mum and Grams. With dad still out on the prolonged beer run, there’s no one to make sure everyone leaves alive.”
“You’re older,” Candace notes, the ever-helpful Candace, “and heavier, you go.”
“You’ve seen Ray less times,” Foggy points out. “Plus all you’d need to do is call the cops, that doesn’t require you having such a tactical advantage over him.”
“He called me this year while you haven’t interacted with him in almost twenty years,” she bristles. And pouts. God damn that pout of hers. “We should rock, paper, scissors it.”
“Fine.”
They do. Foggy loses, because of course he loses. The universe doesn’t like him.
“How,” Foggy grumbles as he leaves the study. There’s a commotion downstairs. He can hear Mrs. Palomas cursing.
“You always use scissors first,” Matt tells him.
“No, I don’t.”
“You do,” Matt laughs. “And I’m blind. If I noticed that, your sister did too.”
“And it never occurred to you to maybe tell me about that?” Foggy asks and Matt snickers, presses his palm to his mouth to hide the giggle.
The voices coming from downstairs become louder as they move towards the staircase and walk down the stairs as quietly as they can.
“--not welcome in my house. Get out, Raymond.” That’s Grams, breaking out her most authoritative tone of voice. Go Grams.
Foggy’s one foot on the landing already, with Matt halfway down the stairs behind him, when Ray moves into their line of sight. Foggy’s, Foggy’s line of sight. Ray is--ass unimpressive as ever. Hair as white as always and in as much disarray, cane, glasses, clothes that have clearly seen better times. And that goddamn smirk that makes Foggy want to punch him every time he sees it. It’s the reason Foggy doesn’t smirk, goes either full-on smile or nothing at all: Foggy has the same expression when he tries to, his lips curve the same way Ray’s do, and Foggy already looks enough like Ray without having to add another layer of similarity by adopting the same mannerism. Foggy’s spent two years of his early teens practicing different expressions in front of a mirror, hoping to pick some that make him look as unlike Ray as humanly possible.
“What, I can’t wish my wife happy birthday?” Ray sneers, because he’s an absolute and utter asshole, God, Foggy hates him, Foggy hates him almost as much as he hates Stick. ‘Almost’ being the operative word here, because Stick is a miserable evil goddamn bastard while Ray is just--Ray is a douchebag and an asshole, was a crap and violent husband and even a worse father, but he never ascended to quite the same plane of evilness as Stick did.
“Ex-wife,” Grams spits out.
“Dad,” Anna says as she grabs the sleeve of Ray’s shirt, squeezes his arm “leave. Or I’ll call the police, I swear I will.”
“Stick,” Matt whispers behind Foggy, and he sounds gutted.
“What?” He heard wrong. Must have. Foggy turns his head towards Matt as he asks the question, and it almost dies on his lips. Matt’s pale and he’s gripping the railing so hard that his knuckles have gone white.
“Stick,” Matt repeats, louder.
There are two other people, beside Foggy — who feels as if someone just snatched the floor from under his feet — that react to that one word. Grams turns her head towards Matt and her expression clouds with anger and suspicion, and Ray… Ray grins.
“Matt,” he says with fake cheer in his voice, “I didn’t expect to see you here, kid.”
He wrenches his arm out of Anna’s grip, nods Grams goodbye and leaves, slamming the door shut on his way out.
The absolute silence that settled in the hallway lasts about a minute. The same minute it takes Foggy to jump over that last step, make it to the door and out, runs after Ray, heedless of Anna’s perplexed calls.
Stick, Stick, Stick, is the only thought that’s clear to him, the only thing he can focus on. I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you, I’ll fucking kill you.
Re: Fill: nothing he can't endure [8/?]
(Anonymous) 2015-08-26 05:38 pm (UTC)(link)Awesome scary grandma and Grandpa asshole. This is going down!!!!
Re: Fill: nothing he can't endure [8/?]
(Anonymous) 2015-08-26 06:28 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Fill: nothing he can't endure [8/?]
(Anonymous) 2015-08-26 09:16 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Fill: nothing he can't endure [8/?]
(Anonymous) 2015-08-27 04:22 pm (UTC)(link)Fill: nothing he can't endure [9/?]
(Anonymous) 2015-08-27 10:13 pm (UTC)(link)Ray must be fueled by hatred and misery and pure evilness, because he's fast for a ninety-year-old — he's almost at the end of the street by the time Foggy catches up with him. He knows that Foggy's coming, he must know, but he doesn't react, doesn't show that he knows, doesn't slow down or speed up in hopes of running away. Which he could do, he's already walking fast, if he sped up he'd be able to get away. But he doesn't. It's like he doesn't care.
One thing happens when Foggy does catch up with him, and it's something that Foggy'll be proud of for years to come, a fond memory to replay when things look bleak and life is crap and everyone needs a little pick-me-up.
Foggy clenches his fist and runs a little faster. "Hey, grandpa!" he calls out.
The use of that word over Ray's name — or the number of derogative monikers that Grams devised for him over the years — stops him dead in his tracks. He turns around, face alight with curiosity, and that split-second pause allows Foggy to collide with him at full speed and to drive his fist into Ray's — creepy, disgusting, so similar to his own — face.
Foggy is not a violent person. Sure, he's been in a fistfight once or twice, last time in sixth grade, with Brett of all people, but he's never been particularly good at fighting. He's not a violent person as a general rule, because Ray has always been a violent person and being unlike Ray has been one of his top life priorities ever since he turned seven and could comprehend just what kind of a douchebag his grandfather was. So. Violence is the measure of last resort, but this is a last resort type of a situation, and Foggy regrets nothing as he lands his fist square in Ray's face.
The sound of bones breaking is just an added bonus.
Ray staggers back and his hand flies to his nose immediately. Someone on the street yells "what the fuck, bruh!", but Foggy's not listening to them, blood is pounding in his ears, there's blood trickling from between Ray's fingers and he looks so goddamn surprised. Didn't see that one coming, did you, Ray.
Ray is still clutching at his nose with one hand, holding his cane with the other — Foggy does briefly think about what Grams' neighbours will say about seeing her grandson beating up a clearly blind elderly man, but decides that a) he doesn't fucking care, and more importantly b) Grams will be proud of him no matter what — when Foggy makes a move to grab him by the lapels and then...shake him? punch him again? punch him until he cries about how sorry he is? Yeah, something like that.
Only Foggy never gets to do any of that, because this isn't merely Ray, his creepy asshole grandfather whom Foggy hates, this is Stick, goddamn motherfucking bastard Stick, blind ninja master Stick, whom Foggy hates even more. Being a ninja master clearly means something, though, because the moment Foggy moves his arms, Ray drops his cane and counters the move, batting Foggy's hands away. He sidesteps Foggy and moves behind him, grabs his arm and twists it behind Foggy's back, pulls Foggy's hand by the wrist so far up that it makes the shoulder strain at the socket. With his other hand he pins Foggy's other arm to his side in a strong iron-like grip that no ninety-year-old should possess.
"What's got into you, Frannie?" he hisses and yet somehow makes it sound almost concerned. He's the most despicable being Foggy has ever encountered, Wilson Fisk included.
"You fucking bastard," Foggy spits out. "You goddamn fucking--"
"Language, Frannie."
"Let me go."
Ray pulls harder at his wrist. He'll dislocate Foggy's shoulder at this rate if he tugs again. "No."
"I know what you did, you bastard," Foggy grits out. "And I'll end you for that."
"So Matty shared. Nice to be remembered, I guess." Foggy struggles to break free, to break Ray's hold on him and turn around, and wrap his hands around Ray's throat and squeeze, but Ray's grip is like a vice. "Give him up, Frannie."
With that, he lets go of both of Foggy's arms, relaxes his grip and shoves Foggy away. Foggy trips, but catches his balance before he ends up nose-first on the pavement. He spins on his heel to face Ray, who looks worse than usual, at least. Blood's no longer running down his face, but his nose is clearly broken. Small things, Foggy, appreciate small things.
Foggy barks out a laugh. "You're shitting me, right?"
"Nothing good ever happens to people in Matt Murdock's life. He's trouble, kid," Ray informs him calmly, "even more so with what's coming. It's for your own damn good."
"Like you fucking care."
"I do care."
"I don't believe you," Foggy snaps.
"I don't need you to believe me." Ray stomps his foot, brings it down on one end of his cane, propelling the thing into air. He catches it mid-fall with a practiced ease. He grins at Foggy, as if expecting applause for a neat trick. "Give him up or I'll me you give him up."
"Like hell." Foggy clenches his fist again, draws his arm back, preparing to throw a punch. Ray catches his fist in front of his face, shakes his head sadly as if disappointed. Well boo-fucking-hoo. "I'll kill you," Foggy tells him, venom and spite pretty much dripping from every word, "if you ever get close to him again. For Matt, I'll kill you, I promise."
Ray smiles. "I believe you," he says simply. He pushes Foggy's still clenched fist back at him. "If you're so concerned about him, maybe you should find out how your friend's doing, mhm? If that's even what he is."
He wipes the rest of the blood on his sleeve, taps his cane against the ground once and turns away. Foggy observes his retreating back for a moment before breaking into a run back towards Grams' house, because Ray might be a dick, but he's right. He left Matt there, he left Matt there and he shouldn't have. So Foggy runs back to the house, blood still pounding in his ears, heart beating too fast, and all thought now occupied by Matt, Matt, Matt.
***
He throws the front door open and barges into the house, yelling, "Matt!"
There's almost no one left at the house. Grams' hunting friends have clearly left, maybe on their own, maybe Grams made them leave. Anna he can hears pacing in the kitchen, still agitated, talking on the phone in a hushed tone with whom Foggy assumes is his dad, but might also be Bess Mahoney, technically. Cande's nowhere to be seen, so perhaps she's still in the study upstairs, blissfully out of this clusterfuck of a situation.
Where hopefully Matt is too, maybe less blissful but safe.
"Matt!" he calls again, while going for the stairs.
"Franklin," Grams says. She's standing in the living room doorway and inclines his head, inviting him in.
He shakes his head. "Not now, Grams, okay, I've gotta--"
"Now, Franklin."
She grabs his arm and drags him into the living room, closing the door behind her. That's never a good sign, and Foggy swallows thickly. Grams is a firm believer in being open about everything and in not keeping secrets from the people you love. It's a rule of hers that Foggy's always cherished, he should really learn how to spell 'hypocrite', shouldn't he, but so should she, to be perfectly honest.
"What the hell were you thinking?" she hisses. Foggy winces. Well, there goes his hope of Grams being proud. He takes a breath and prepares to explain when she continues, "do you know how hard I've worked to keep you, your mother, your sister, away from all his shit? And you bring all of that into my house."
He shakes his head to clear it. He's not actually hearing what he thinks he's hearing. "What?"
"I promised myself that my child would not be a part of the Chaste's shitfest, not like Ray and I were," she carries on as if Foggy hasn't spoken. "I did everything to protect you from that and you go and bring one of his into our lives! For God's sake, Frannie, you don't even realise how dangerous those people are!"
"One of his?!" Foggy gapes. "What the hell, Grams, that's Matt. You know Matt, you've known him for five years!"
"Exactly!" She points a finger at Foggy accusingly. "God only knows what he told him about us in that time!"
"What he tol--Matt's not a spy! He didn't even know! I didn't know!"
"You can't be sure of that!" She throws her hands up in exasperation. "He's one of Ray's! 'Stick', only the Chaste calls him that, so he is, he must be! They're all dangerous people, Frannie, nothing good ever happens to people associated with them!"
"Matt's not one of Stick's anything!" Foggy's yelling now too, full volume. "They haven't even spoken in almost twenty years! He abandoned Matt! He ruined Matt's life and he abandoned him!" Foggy runs a hand through his hair. "Fucking hell, Grams, what the fuck, are you even listening to yourself? You know Matt! And you wouldn't even be saying this if you knew what he--"
He stops. Snaps his mouth shut. No. It's not his secret, it's not his secret to tell. He shouldn't even know about it, the fact that he does was a mere miserable fucking chance. Foggy closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. He takes a few breaths, trying to calm himself down. Jesus fuck, he never took Grams for a paranoid psycho. He hopes Matt's not focusing too hard on the argument downstairs and can't hear Grams' accusations. They're ridiculous. She's acting ridiculous.
A sharp intake of breath makes him open his eyes and glance at Grams. She's staring at him with something akin to comprehension. "Ray trained him, didn't he?" she asks quietly. It's almost eerie after all the shouting of the last few minutes. Foggy nods and the comprehension turns into apprehension turns into deep regret. Regret now, just great. Grams slumps onto an armchair. She looks defeated. "My God." She covers her mouth with her hand. "What have I done."
Dread settles over Foggy. "What have you done?"
Grams shakes her head mutely. So no answer there. Foggy strides over to the door and opens it, walks back into the hallway.
"Foggy?" Candace asks. She's standing on the last step of the stairs and she's holding Matt's cane in her hands. Candace is holding Matt's cane.
"Where's Matt?"
"He left," she says. "After you went after Ray, Grams dragged him away and they argued..." She makes a face. "Well, more like Grams yelled at him. And he just--ran off. Out of the house and--away. He left his cane here." She looks down at the item in question. "What happened?"
"You better ask Grams," Foggy says.
Candace steps off the stairs and hands him Matt's cane. "He left his cane here," she repeats. "Is he--Is he going to be okay?"
She means without the cane, obviously, because she doesn't know that Matt can, if needed, operate without it just fine. But that's not what Foggy means when he answers.
"I don't know," he tells her as he takes the cane. "But I hope so."
"You'll find him, right?" Candace asks.
"Yes," Foggy answers. Then, in a sudden surge of emotion for his stupid but so caring little sister, he drags her closer and presses a kiss to her forehead. Then he grips Matt's cane tighter and exits the house once more.
Outside, it started raining again. He looks around, left and right, but Matt's not sitting on any doorsteps or benches. He's nowhere in sight. "MATT!" he yells, but doesn't have any particular hope that Matt'll hear him.
There's no answer, predictably. Matt might be, theoretically, ignoring him, but he might not be anywhere near here anymore. Foggy folds Matt's cane under his arm and begins his fast-paced walk towards the subway station, towards line C that'll take him right back to Matt's apartment, where Matt hopefully is.
Foggy doesn't want to think about the alternative.
Re: Fill: nothing he can't endure [9/?]
(Anonymous) 2015-08-28 12:49 am (UTC)(link)AHHHHHHHHHHHDHFSHNCXDKHDASHKVMDJAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH
Ahem. More later. After I get to a computer and stop spazzing like an octopus on Red Bull.
Re: Fill: nothing he can't endure [9/?]
(Anonymous) 2015-08-28 01:59 am (UTC)(link)Re: Fill: nothing he can't endure [9/?]
(Anonymous) 2015-08-28 02:04 am (UTC)(link)Re: Fill: nothing he can't endure [9/?]
(Anonymous) 2015-08-28 02:28 am (UTC)(link)jfc, Grandma...
Re: Fill: nothing he can't endure [9/?]
(Anonymous) 2015-08-28 06:35 am (UTC)(link)Re: Fill: nothing he can't endure [9/?]
(Anonymous) 2015-08-28 02:30 am (UTC)(link)Re: Fill: nothing he can't endure [9/?]
(Anonymous) 2015-08-28 07:11 am (UTC)(link)But hey, at least Foggy got to break Stick's nose. That's something... Not enough, but something.
Re: Fill: nothing he can't endure [9/?]
(Anonymous) 2015-08-28 08:50 am (UTC)(link)Re: Fill: nothing he can't endure [9/?]
(Anonymous) 2015-08-28 07:56 am (UTC)(link)OMG I'm absolutely incoherent right now! MAAAATTT!!! FOOGGYYYYYY!! OMFG I CAN'T!!
Fill: nothing he can't endure [10/?]
(Anonymous) 2015-08-28 10:11 pm (UTC)(link)“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 [11/?]
(Anonymous) 2015-08-28 10:15 pm (UTC)(link)"So are we," Matt hesitates, God, he sounds so fucking hopeful, "are we okay?"
Foggy sits down on the sofa next to Matt, careful not to touch him. He's not sure how Matt'd react, and as far as he's concerned, right now? No express permission or express desire means no touching.
"I don't know," Foggy tells him and Matt's expression crumbles like a house of cards that's been built on unsteady ground. "Are we? Are we okay from your side?"
Matt frowns. "What do you mean?"
"I've told you how I feel. Fuck Grams, fuck Ray, fuck any and all haters. You're my best friend, you're my family, I love you, nothing's gonna change that. I'm with you all the way. But what about how do you feel? Can you--"
Foggy stops. He's not sure how to finish that sentence. For a split second he wanted to say 'can you forgive me?', but that wouldn't be fair, to either him or Matt. Neither of them knew. Foggy didn't lie to Matt, not about this. 'Can you live with this?' Sounds awful.
"Can you even stand the sight of me now, now that you do know?"
"The fact that I can't see probably helps," Matt says and there's a small, shy smile playing on his lips. And yeah, Foggy walked right into that one, and not even on purpose, Matt saw — oh Christ, they're hilarious tonight — a chance and took it. It's a good sign, cracking their usual dumb blind jokes.
"You're hilarious," Foggy says, voicing his thoughts. The shy smile gets a tad bigger. Foggy takes a breath. "Communication, Matt, we've talked about it. Tell me what you need and I'll do it, even if it's me getting the hell away. Because I need to know that you're okay."
"I need you," Matt whispers. "I can't lose you. You make me better."
"And what about me now? There isn't much I can do, realistically, except for maybe officially disowning Ray, but that won't change the fact that he and I share roughly 25% of DNA." God, that thought makes him sick. "Are you going to be okay with me?"
Matt doesn't nod immediately; he actually takes his time thinking about the question, he gives it some thought and that's progress, because for once Matt Murdock is thinking about what he wants and needs and what he can or cannot do.
But he does nod eventually. "Then the answer to your question is 'yes'," Foggy tells him. "Yes, we are okay. Or we will be. The offer to disown him still stands, though."
Matt lowers his head and picks at the rim of the sweater. God, he looks so young and vulnerable without his glasses. "Why?" he asks. "Why do you--"
Care, Foggy's mind supplies the rest of the question. Why do you care?
"You take care of Hell's Kitchen and everyone in it," he tells Matt, shrugging. He doesn't bother narrating. Matt knows. "So I figure, someone should take care of you in return."
Matt's head snaps back up and he purses his lips. "I don't need to be taken care of."
"I know," Foggy says. He thinks about what Jess said right before she left his apartment. "But that doesn't mean you don't deserve it."
They're silent for a moment. Foggy remembers the tea he left in the kitchenette, jumps off the couch and runs to check if he can still salvage it. It's not hot anymore, but it's warm enough, so he takes out the bag and adds a teaspoon of honey. He brings it to the living room and hands Matt the mug. Matt wraps his hands around it. He looks pensive.
"There's...something else," he says slowly and Foggy's blood runs cold. God, what now. "You--hugged me. Used to. You stopped."
"You didn't want it," Foggy reminds gently. "You told me to stop."
"I know." Matt sips the tea, most likely to postpone having to speak. "I'm sorry." He falls silent. Foggy patiently waits for him to continue. "It was--overwhelming. But I--liked--it. Can I--Can I take it back? That I want you to stop."
"You want me to hug you?"
"... Yes?"
Foggy starts laughing. He laughs and laughs, and Matt frowns at him, lost. Foggy takes the mug away from him and puts it on his coffee table, he catches Matt's wrists and tugs him close, so that Matt's half-leaning against him, with his head on Foggy's shoulder. "Snuggling totally counts as hugging."
A puff of hot air hits the skin of his neck and he realises that it's Matt, laughing under his breath. Matt scoops even closer and his hand grabs the material of Foggy's T-shirt, twists in it. Foggy brings his arm around Matt and presses him close, presses a kiss to the top of Matt's head. He closes his eyes and breathes in the scent of rainwater still fresh on Matt's hair and the scent of Matt, safe, safe and so close.
***
"Ray," Matt says, tasting the word, seeing how it fits on his tongue. "Ray?"
They're lying across the sofa, Foggy leaning against the armrest and Matt sprawled across him in a lazy embrace. Matt's head is pressed to his breastbone, right under Foggy's chin. Déjà vu all over again.
"Raymond Connor. From Maine."
"Maine?" Matt asks and doesn't bother to hide his distaste.
Foggy chuckles. "Yeah," he says. "You know, I broke his nose."
"Broke his nose?" Oh. Matt sounds borderline impressed. "When was that?"
"Today," Foggy tells him proudly. "When I ran after him. I punched him and broke his nose, he didn't see me coming.
Matt hums into the fabric of Foggy's T-shirt and settles more comfortably against him. One of Foggy's hands starts tracing abstract patterns on Matt's back.
"Ray," he says suddenly, as something occurs to him. "He can do the same stuff you can, right?"
"Sort of," Matt murmurs. He's starting to sound sleepy. Maybe Foggy will backrub him to sleep. "Some things he can do better. Some things--not."
"What about your crazy polygraph thing? Can he do that?"
"Yes," Matt slurs. Yep, definitely on his way to dreamland. "Why d'you ask?"
"I told him I'd kill him if he ever got close to you again. Promised him that, in fact."
Matt makes a pained noise. "Foggy," he says, and sounds more awake than a second before, damn, why can't you ever keep your mouth shut, Nelson, "why did you--He'll kill you, Foggy, I can't let that happen--"
"I don't think he will," Foggy murmurs. "He looked almost impressed after I told him that. And he said--"
"What?" Matt asks.
Foggy thinks about it for a minute. Whether Matt's right and Ray — Stick —Ray really can do the polygraph thing. Whether this meant that Ray thought Foggy was capable of killing.
"He said that he believed me."
Matt doesn't say anything to that, doesn't seem fazed by this, but for once Foggy knows that it's just a front, a mask of outward calm. Matt's grip on Foggy's T-shirt tightens and he's laying pressed so close that Foggy can feel his heartbeat speed up at this confession.
It doesn't slow down until Matt falls asleep and Foggy finds himself wondering what Matt was thinking about that it made him so nervous.
Re: Fill: nothing he can't endure [11/?]
(Anonymous) 2015-08-29 01:17 am (UTC)(link)You're my favorite, basically.
Re: Fill: nothing he can't endure [11/?]
(Anonymous) 2015-08-29 07:59 am (UTC)(link)Re: Fill: nothing he can't endure [11/?]
(Anonymous) 2015-08-29 10:48 am (UTC)(link)