daredevilkink | Prompt Post #6

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oh my god i don't know how the FEELS got in there and also this may be my single longest posted fanfic which is utterly ridiculous if you think about it. but, uh, anyway, i hope the language isn't too awkward given the number of characters with the same name. unbeta'd. also there's a little praisekink thrown in because, well, matt deserves good things. enjoy!

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Corollary

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At first it was a mess of overlapping heartbeats and sour-fear smell and too many too-similar voices in off-tune syncopation. Now the group seems to have come to some sort of uneasy equilibrium regarding who's standing where and how close together they can stand to be and all of it's centered around Matt as the linchpin in the middle of his living room given that every Foggy who's shown up in this universe -- last count three -- gravitated to his apartment one after the other like some sort of demented set of needles toward the North Pole.

As far as they can discern, it's happening all over the city: subtle variations of a person's life showing up in this universe, the differences as inconsequential as one version having chosen blueberry pancakes for breakfast yesterday and another version opting for plain buttermilk. Nothing earth-shatteringly different. Nobody, so far as any of them have heard, has met with their opposite-gender double or a version of themselves having opted to become a hermit in the
Himalayas unless they were already deep into their own hermitage. Just themselves, as near as to make no difference. Which is bad enough, really. At least then Matt would be able to make a distinction in his own mind between all the versions of his best friend currently eyeing each other in varying levels of dislike and freaked out-ness. But no, they all register as genuine, 100% Foggy to his senses, and he's trying to keep from circling in place to face one and then another like his own version of a demented compass needle.

The worst part is, he can barely identify his Foggy amidst the multitude if he's not concentrating. Matt is pretty sure his Foggy is the one hovering just to the right of him, possessive in the face of all his doubles and seeking reassurance. There are bruises on his shoulder and hip from where Matt bit him last night, he can hear the disordered blood vessels marking him out, and while the Foggy across from him slumped over on the couch also has those particular bruises, he also sports a hickey on his throat that Matt doesn't remember leaving. It still feels disloyal, somehow, that he can't pick his lover immediately out of a crowd. Even though it's a crowd of himself.

Though it could be worse. For a moment, Matt spares a thought for the other versions of himself who are currently missing their Foggys and winces internally. In that sense he's lucky as hell. It is, honestly, an embarrassment of riches.

Not that that's the most productive path his thoughts should be taking. Really. And also, the one with the hickey smells like Marci.

He's already called Karen and explained the situation. She'd choked a little and then laughed, slightly hysterical but on the whole more amused than alarmed. "You really should bring him in," she'd said. "Them. Whatever. We could get so much work done on the Jeffersons' case today with the extra manpower."

"Think of the overtime pay," he'd answered, as dry as he could make it, and she'd laughed again, conceding the point and telling him not to do anything too wild for the time being. Wild. Right.

Familiar footsteps at the door, familiar frantic heartbeat. "Matt, you in?" Door opening before he can answer. "There's something wrong, someone was in my apartment last night, the wallpaper's all--"

The footsteps stop short as their owner realizes he's walked into a more crowded apartment than expected. Matt sighs wearily as there's a pause and the third blurted, "What the hell--?!" of this morning.

Four and counting.

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"--so the Avengers just released a press statement saying they're on it and the matter should be resolved within twenty-four hours," one Foggy reports from where he's crouched over a laptop at the kitchen bar. "They say not to be alarmed and to, uh--" A snicker. "--to treat our doubles with consideration for the time being." Matt thinks about all of the denizens of Hell's Kitchen whose primary reaction is shoot first, hide the body, and winces again. Though the thought of two Fisks in the same universe, let alone the same vicinity is enough to sap any low-key dark amusement in that thought.

He'll deal with that if he has to, he decides. Right now, there's Foggy -- a lot of him -- to concentrate on. At least the deluge seems to have stopped at four.

"So," another Foggy says awkwardly, this one with his back to the windows, "who's up for a round of Texas Hold 'Em?"

"Or the most awkward game of Twister ever," another one mutters. Matt can't help but snort at the thought, then chokes when a third Foggy says, "Only if Matt's on the bottom."

"Hey!"

And that was definitely his Foggy, drawing nearer even as a sort of worryingly contemplative silence descends over the other three. From the disturbance of the dust motes in the air, Matt figures they're exchanging looks at this novel new concept. Something unnamed squirms in the pit of his stomach and he's not sure whether or not he likes it.

"Oh no you don't." Foggy has come straight up to his side and is most likely glaring at each of his doubles in turn. "You lot can wait until you get back to wherever you came from and then shag your Matts silly as a 'honey, I'm home' greeting."

Matt rubs his temples even as the Foggy at the kitchen bar says, slowly, "Uh. Matt and I aren't like that."

"Me neither." That's the one at the windows, the one who made the suggestion. Then says more brightly, "Though now that you mention it--"

"Hey!"

"I mean, not that there's anything wrong with being like that with Matt," the one at the kitchen bar continues over Foggy's objections in an uncoordinated rush, cheeks heating palpably with embarrassment, "and not that I wouldn't appreciate being like that with Matt -- my Matt -- it's just--"

"I'm not with Matt either," offers the one that smells like Marci, and really, Matt's resisting the urge to scrub at his eyes in exasperation and bewilderment. So much for the minor variations in lifestyle; apparently he and Foggy being together are the major but too-singular corollary to the rule of Nelson-and-Murdock. Why?

"--though I really want to be, don't get me wrong--"

"--seems like it'd be fun, you lucky bastard--"

"--and why am I telling you all this, you're not even--"

"Oh for fuck's sake," a voice rises over the crowd. And now Foggy -- his Foggy -- grabs him and pulls him into a soul-searing, spit-swapping, toe-curling kiss. In spite of their audience -- or maybe even because of their audience -- Matt's hands come up automatically to yank Foggy in, trying to climb inside of his skin as his world lights up with tongue and lips and heat.

Silence has descended upon his living room.

And then the Foggy on the couch swallows and says, thick-voiced, "Okay, yeah, that's hot."

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Prompt Post #6

FILL: Corollary (1/?) (Foggy/Matt, Multiple Foggies!)