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FILL: Bi Foggy/Straight Matt - Matt hooks up with Foggy out of guilt 1/?

[(Anonymous)]

Matt’s always known that Foggy’s been attracted to him – ever since that first meeting back at Columbia, back when Foggy was just his strange new roommate and not the best friend he has ever had and imagines he will ever have – and he’s always felt a little guilty about it. Nothing he dwells on, but a twinge, a niggling at his conscience when he pulls Foggy into a hug or leans into him or links their arms together and hears it – the sudden lurch as Foggy’s heart speeds in his chest, smells it – the faint, musky scent of masculine arousal. He feels a little guilty for the way that Foggy’s skin heats and beads with sweat, but for the way that he pulls closer instead of pulling away, the way he tucks his head into the crook of Foggy’s neck where all that heat and arousal and Foggy pools, for that he feels mortified, ashamed.

It isn’t that he wants to encourage Foggy – he just wants to be close, just wants to be near. No one else touches him, most days; no one holds him, affectionately punches his shoulder, ruffles his hair, and he wants it, craves it. Wants the proximity, the intimacy, the love, the complete lack of emotional boundaries that usually only comes with romantic entanglement, even if he doesn’t want sex like Foggy’s hormones are screaming, even if he has trouble accommodating sex and Foggy in the same thought. He doesn’t want to encourage it, but at the same time he does, he really, really does, because being with Foggy, being near Foggy is as close as he comes to being completely happy, like huddling by a campfire for warmth, the only heat in a cold, cold night, because even if it isn’t enough to keep out the full bite of the wind, it gives him the strength to survive until morning.

So he does what he can to keep them close, close enough that the line between friend and lover is blurred – but never broken. Constant physical contact, but always with lines, limits, clear delineations between what’s acceptable and what isn’t. Hugs, but no kisses. Linked arms, but no hand-holding. Shoulder to shoulder with a hand pressed firmly into the small of Matt’s back sitting, standing, or walking, but never anything horizontal. And Foggy goes along with it, makes it easier with his self-depreciating humour and half-joking flirtations. Foggy takes anything, everything he can get, but never gains the confidence to press further, to force the inevitable awkward rejection that would result, and Matt never even has to say the word “straight.”

It goes on like that for years, fooling him into thinking that he can walk into infinity the narrow ledge afforded to friends so close, so emotionally tangled that it’s hard to see where one begins and the other ends.

He stumbles, metaphorically, the day after having fallen, literally, off the fifth story of a fire escape during an altercation with the goons of a mid-level mobster. He manages to get into the newly minted headquarters of Nelson and Murdock long before either Foggy or Karen arrives and spends the day hiding in his office. Both come in and out, Karen to drop off paperwork and offer him some coffee, which he declines, and Foggy to complain about the construction going on across from his apartment and to bring him some lunch, which he accepts. Neither notices anything unusual.

He tries to wait them out, wait until they leave, but he’s exhausted, having barely slept, barely eaten in the last twenty-four hours, and he’s nodding by the afternoon. Around five he decides he’s useless here and might as well get some rest somewhere with a bed and takes advantage of Karen rinsing a cup in the office’s small kitchenette to make a break for the door – make that a stiff hobble for the door. He disguises the pain as well as he can, face schooled and body controlled, walking as naturally as possible, but he moves slowly even so.

His dim hope of a clean escape fades long before he clears the building’s lobby, as he is followed by a heartbeat as familiar as his own out into the street.

“Hey Matt!” Foggy’s voice is bright and wrong with false cheerfulness. “I was just heading out,” Lie, lie, lie, “Why don’t I walk you home?”

“Please, don’t go out of your way. I’m sure you’re busy.”

“Well, I am a partner at a prestigious law firm, but I always make time for the little people who got me to where I am today.” The tone is happy, but Foggy’s heart is angry, angry, angry, with every thump. Foggy bumps gently against his shoulder, and Matt takes his arm, resigning himself to whatever it is that Foggy has planned, dreading confrontation, but willing to do whatever it takes to make that anger fade.

Neither speaks on the way to Matt’s apartment. Unlike with their usual comfortable silences, Matt finds himself hyper-aware, of himself, of Foggy, of every heartbeat, of every brush of cloth, of the warmth of Foggy’s arm beneath his palm, and his thoughts spiral darker with every passing minute. His fingers clench involuntarily.

“Whoa, hey! Hey! Stop freaking out. It’s fine. Everything’s fine. We just need to talk.” And it isn’t a lie – at least, Foggy doesn’t think it’s a lie, his heart speeding slightly with pain, but not spiking with deception, yet the reality is so far from fine, miles from okay. “Come on, you look like you’re next in line for the guillotine. A little chat, that’s all.”

They reach the apartment, and Foggy stays close as Matt unlocks his door. It’s not as comforting as it usually is. Matt steps inside and hangs his head, waiting. Foggy tuts and shoos him into the living room.
“Show me.”

Matt sighs and sits on the couch before rolling up the leg of his slacks. He knows the swelling is substantial, and the low hiss Foggy makes informs him that the bruising is also pretty spectacular.

“Fuck. Just – fuck. Have you had any ice on that? Have you seen Claire or, heaven forbid, been to a hospital?”

“I iced it before I came into work. Kept the pack on most of the morning, at least until it melted. Really though, Foggy, it’s a sprain, that’s all.”

Foggy tuts and walks to the kitchen, floorboards creaking near-silently beneath his weight, to fetch another ice pack from the freezer. “Is that all? I’m going to forgive the clavier attitude towards your own health and person safety just this once, because you can’t actually see your ankle in glorious technicolour.” Foggy raises his voice as he goes, even knowing Matt can hear him just as well, but tosses the ice over for him to catch. It’s contradictory and strangely charming.

“You know, I had hoped that with Fisk safely away in a maximum security jail cell without even a chance at bail that you might at least take a break.” Foggy sighs a tired, worn sigh. “Give my poor heart a rest.”

“Sorry.”

“Not sorry enough, obviously.”

Matt winces.

Foggy sighs again. “Stop it. Damn it, Matt. Must you be conflicted and self-sacrificing about literally everything? Rhetorical question – don’t answer.”

The couch sinks as Foggy sits next to him. He stinks of fear and exhaustion. Matt’s throat feels too tight.

“What happened to you last night, anyway?”

Matt’s always been uncomfortable lying, particularly lying to Foggy, and after everything that’s happened – the anger, the betrayal in Foggy’s voice after he found out – Matt can’t quite manage the strength. “Fell.”

“You fell. As in you fell over? You tripped? Or-”

“From a fire escape.”

“You fell off a building?!”

It’s loud, too loud, and Matt turns his head away, cringing. “From a fire escape. I wasn’t even that high up.”

“How high, exactly, is not that high? Enlighten me, Mathew. In stories, how high up were you when you fell off a fucking building?!”

Matt rolls his neck, stretching out the tense muscle. “…About five stories. Give or take.”

Foggy breathing hitches. “About? About five stories?”

“Give or take.”

“…I think I’m gonna puke.”

“Foggy-”

And like that Foggy is standing, pacing. “Don’t- don’t Foggy me! You could have broken a leg! You could have broken two legs! That’s literally all of your legs! You could have died!” Foggy’s voice wavers into a small, broken timber that forecasts impending tears. “You could have died, and I can’t help thinking, every time you’re out of my sight, that you could be bleeding out in a gutter somewhere or at the bottom of the river, and I would never know what happened. All I would know is one day you didn’t come home, and it’s killing me.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I-”