Work Text:
They’re on their way back to their respective apartments after work, walking amiably and chatting about nothing much before they split to go their separate routes.
"I mean, obviously we're not taking him as a client, I just think it's weird that he thought we would," Foggy says, and then he slows, his next inhale sharper than it should be. “Hey, are you okay?”
Matt tilts his head questioningly, about to respond, when Foggy moves to face away from him, over towards the entrance of the alley coming up on their right.
He gets a sinking feeling in his gut. There’s no heartbeat, no person Matt can sense over there; if Foggy sees someone, they’re really not okay. He tightens his grip where his hand rests in the crux of Foggy’s elbow, about to pull him back, away from whatever he might be seeing, when something answers.
“Oh, I’m just fine, young man. Just fine.”
Matt freezes.
The voice assaults Matt’s ears from so many different directions that he can’t pinpoint where it’s coming from. It’s low and hollow sounding, something like the rattle of subway tracks and the hiss of bus hydraulics echoing in the reverb of it as Matt shakes his head to try and clear it, tugging Foggy back towards him.
“What-” Foggy stumbles back and Matt puts himself between Foggy and the mouth of the alley. He drops Foggy’s arm and switches his grip to his cane, fingers twisting tightly around the familiar handle.
“What are you?” Matt asks, squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin.
“Ooh, he’s spunky,” the voice mocks, and Matt grits his teeth against the wail of a siren rebounding impossibly in the crowing voice.
Matt shifts his weight, the soles of his sensible oxfords grinding grit into the pavement, and refuses to flinch. “What are you?” he demands again.
A rush of wind gusts out from the alley. The scent of rotten trash and hot, savory pretzels envelops Matt, and the voice is closer, too close, the next time Matt hears it. A wet puff of hot breath, manhole steam and car exhaust, bursts over his face, chokingly thick. “Oh you oughtta recognize me, kiddo,” the voice whispers, amused. “You of all people.”
“Hey,” Foggy’s voice is a welcome shock of warmth and familiarity. “Let’s take it easy, huh? No need to get riled up.”
“I’m not riled up, sweetheart. Not yet.”
The voice is smooth and affectionate when addressing Foggy, and Matt can’t help but bristle as he feels the thing’s attention shift.
“That’s… good to hear,” Foggy says, and Matt twitches when Foggy steps up, shoulder to shoulder with him. “Is… there anything we can do, uh, for you?”
A gentle whiff of hotdog cart and warm, yeasty bagels buffets over them. “I always did like you,” the thing says, gentle in a creaking way, settling like a building on a strong foundation. Matt hears the coo of a pigeon and can’t tell if it’s real or something else emanating from whatever this thing is.
“Oh,” Foggy says, and Matt lets go of his cane with one hand, fumbling down at his side until he can grip Foggy’s fingers in his, an awkward clutch until Foggy twists his wrist to tangle their fingers together more completely. He feels and hears Foggy’s pulse, strong like always, fast and steady. Foggy’s swallow clicks in his throat. “Thanks.”
“Aw shucks,” the voice chortles, oily like a slice of Foggy’s favorite pizza. “You two are too much,” it crows, sing-song. Matt hears something shuffle, hears paper trash in thin plastic bags and the rattle of cans in the movement.
“What do you want?” Matt asks, itching to pull Foggy behind him again.
“I wanna give you somethin’,” the voice says, the curl of a smirk audible in the words. “A token,” it continues, “of my appreciation.”
The metallic scent of an old brass subway token overwhelms him briefly, and he shakes his head to get rid of it, to get rid of the image it brings to his mind of his father’s fingers, busted knuckles and stiff joints, flipping a token like a quarter as he turns to greet Matt, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, the split-lip smile.
“We don’t want it,” Matt tells it, taking a step forward.
“Oh, slugger,” the voice says, echoes growing and compounding as it looms up, over, around them. Bucket drums and car horns and the rushing commotion of a sleeting storm swirl into a cacophony, above which an amused, itching whisper rasps in his ears, “I didn’t ask if you want it.”
***
“-att? Matt?”
“Foggy?” Matt croaks, confused, as the world seeps back in through his tender senses.
“Oh thank god. Are you okay?”
Matt feels a hand brush gently against his jaw. It feels like Foggy. It smells like Foggy. It’s Foggy’s voice.
Matt can’t hear Foggy’s heartbeat.
He hears the squawk as he tumbles whatever it is over onto its back, scrambling on top of it. He feels fingers grasping at his lapels. He smells the gust of breath as the wind is knocked out of whatever this imposter is. The breath smells like Foggy's spit, which gives Matt pause. It smells like the sandwiches they had eaten for lunch, and the last of the cobbler from Mrs. Lipnitsky, and the burnt coffee they’d struggled through that morning. It smells like Foggy’s breath, and Matt realizes he’s been hearing Foggy’s voice, sounding more confused than scared, pinned to the sidewalk as he is.
“-me. It’s just me. What’s going on, huh? Are you okay?”
Matt leans back, flattening his hands across the chest beneath him. He can’t hear Foggy’s heartbeat, but he can feel it, strong and fast, beneath layers of clothing and skin.
“Foggy,” Matt says, half a question.
"Yep, yeah. It's me." The hands twisting in his lapels let go and smooth down to circle Matt's wrists gently. "Everything okay? Aside from maybe being cursed by a weird New York goblin thing. Fairy thing? Was that one of those things Jones was talking about? The Avengers bullshit?"
"Wishes," Matt says, remembering Jones bitching about it last week. He presses his palm more firmly against Foggy’s chest. The pulsing thump of his steady heartbeat is still there, disconcertingly inaudible. "They granted wishes." Foggy's heart thumps a little faster.
"Maybe-" Foggy says, pausing to blow a stream of air through pursed lips. Matt gets a whiff of sandwich and Foggy’s shampoo and realizes he blew his bangs off his forehead. "Can we do this, like, not, uh, on the ground in an alley?"
Matt blinks and sits up, letting himself take in their surroundings. They're inside the alley they had been walking past, the sidewalk a dozen or so feet away. Oblivious people stride by, incurious and purposeful, and Matt can hear each one of their heartbeats as they move into his range.
He turns his face back towards Foggy, resting patiently beneath him. "Yeah," he says eventually, voice rumbling dark with guilt and worry. "Yeah, okay. Let's go."
***
They make it to Matt's place without any further incident. If Foggy finds it weird that Matt won't let go of his hand the entire way he doesn't say anything about it, which Matt is grateful for. He grips Foggy's fingers tightly, feeling the blood pulse rhythmically through his veins.
"Okay," Foggy says, rounding on Matt once the apartment door closes behind them and Matt doesn't release his fingers. He jiggles their joined hands. "Not that I mind, but what's this about, huh?"
"I can't hear your heart," Matt says after a beat of considering skirting the issue. Foggy makes a strained little exhale, which Matt thinks of as contemplative, and Matt tugs him gently over to the couch while he processes.
"That's…" Foggy starts and then trails off. Matt's hand is tugged as Foggy sinks onto the couch, leather cushions creaking.
Foggy's blood pumps reassuringly through his veins, a slight and steady pulse under the skin of his fingers and palm. Matt readjusts their fingers.
"So this is because you can't hear my heart?" Foggy asks, wiggling Matt's hand a little.
Matt nods.
Foggy lets out a thoughtful little huff of breath.
Matt waits.
"I mean, I can't ever hear your heartbeat," Foggy says tentatively.
Matt feels his face scrunch and shrugs a little. "You can look over at me though, and see I'm okay."
"Hmm." Foggy squeezes Matt's fingers. "I really, really don't mind this," he says, voice careful and soft. "I just don't think that it's… feasible in the long run.
Matt can't disagree.
"You can…" Foggy hesitates, one finger tapping thoughtfully against Matt's knuckle. "You can still hear… other people's heartbeats?"
"Yeah," Matt acknowledges, voice rougher than he thought it was going to be.
"So, hm," Foggy trails off again.
"What is it?"
"I'm just trying to figure out why that thing hid my heartbeat only. That thing, which, by the way, according to your friends the Avengers-"
"Acquaintances," Matt interjects, the corner of his mouth tugging up at Foggy's snort.
"Whatever. According to the Avengers 2.0, those things were "taken care of," so, uh, number one, I guess: why is there still one skulking around the neighborhood? And two: why the fuck did it do this to us?" He huffs out a sigh, and then, softly, "To you? To us."
Matt straightens a little, fingers clenching around Foggy's Inadvertently. "I- you didn't, uh, you didn't wish for it?"
"What? No way! Wishing you can't hear my heartbeat is like, surefire death in wish terms. Monkey's paw, man."
Matt blinks and slowly begins to nod, shifting to sit more comfortably on the couch.
"Did you… wish for someth-"
"I didn't wish for anything," Foggy says quickly. "Not consciously. I was mostly just trying to keep you from getting eaten by a creature I initially thought was a pile of trash until it started moving."
"You- uh, what did it look like?"
"Oh jeez," Foggy sighs. "Kinda like a pile of trash bags, and then sort of a homeless person, I guess, until it started to look like maybe it was wearing a ball gown?"
Matt quirks his brow as he feels Foggy’s pulse speed up, and hears his breathing quicken almost imperceptibly. Foggy continues.
"Then, I swear to god for like a second it looked like Vinny from the hotdog cart around the corner from the Midtown courthouse." Foggy's breathing and his talking continue to speed up as he goes on, "And then it was like an old lady in a huge coat but in the winter time, like i could see the slush, and then it was like a dog walker with one of those stupid belts with like eight dogs clipped to it, leaning against the tug, before it was a schmuck stealing a cab from someone, and after that I stopped trying to look at it I guess."
"Wow."
Foggy, practically panting after his recollection, shifts on the couch, leather creaking. He swallows. "Yeah." He takes another breath. "It was all of those things at once, too, but like, showing me them, flickering sort of. I don't- it's hard to explain."
"No, it's… It sounded, uh, like a lot. Too. A lot of things all together, just, uh. It was weird."
"Yeah."
"I'm sorry I tackled you."
Foggy snorts.
Matt rolls his eyes and bumps his shoulder into Foggy's, "I woke up and you sounded like you but I couldn't hear your heartbeat," he explains. "And that thing, it didn't have one either, and it sounded like so much, I thought- I don't know. I thought it was pretending to be you and I panicked."
"Ah," Foggy says, and the couch creaks again as his other hand comes across to pat the back of Matt’s. "I get it. I would have kicked your ass, too, in that situation."
"Oh, no doubt." Matt nods, scratching at his nose in a way that shouldn't hide his grin at all. "I'm sure you could have."
"I mean yeah," Foggy shrugs, clearly speaking through a smile. "I'm, you know, I'm scrappy. Gotta watch out."
"So scrappy," Matt agrees, and he drops his head, blinking at the prickling feeling at the corners of his eyes. He gives Foggy’s hand one last squeeze and then very deliberately untangles their fingers. Depositing Foggy's hand on top of Foggy’s lap, Matt gives it a little pat and then lifts his head again, giving Foggy a look at his face.
"We'll figure it out, man," Foggy says reassuringly. His voice is confident and his breathing is measured, and Matt can't help but want to know whether his heart stuttered as he said it.
"Yeah, I'll give Jess a call, maybe. Find out what she knows."
"Do you have an Avengers bat signal thing?"
"I have Pepper Potts's phone number," Matt suggests.
"So yes, is what I'm hearing."
Matt slumps against the back of the couch and smiles towards the ceiling.
***
They get to the office around the same time the next morning. Matt hears footsteps and absent humming and no approaching heartbeat, and decides to wait until Foggy sidles up next to him at the door to open it.
"You ready for this?" Foggy asks. Matt resists the urge to take his hand and nods.
"Maybe you're missing Karen's-" Foggy starts to say, but Matt shakes his head.
"No, it's there."
"Through the door?" Foggy exclaims as Matt shrugs and pushes it open.
"Morning boys," Karen says.
"Morning," Matt replies, setting his cane down in the corner by the coat rack.
"Matt got cursed by a fairy last night," Foggy says.
Matt sighs and takes his jacket off.
"I thought they granted wishes," Karen says, taking the news in stride.
"Maybe. Matt doesn't like what it did."
Turning to face Foggy, Matt can't keep himself from frowning. "Do you like what it did?"
"I mean, I don't hate the idea of you not being able to constantly polygraph me," Foggy says. Matt listens to the sound of him taking off his own jacket. "I certainly don't like that you don't like it. I will help you fix it. But it's kind of nice, like-" Matt can hear the rustle of sleeves as he makes a gesture with his arms. "Breathing room."
Karen makes a little noise in the back of her throat.
The floor creaks under Foggy but he doesn't move. Matt cocks his head. "Breathing room."
Foggy sniffs, his clothes rustle, and Matt hears the sound of barely-there stubble scraping under fingernails as Foggy scratches his jaw. Foggy moves towards him, and Matt allows his hand to be picked up and manipulated, so that two of his fingers rest firmly against the pulse point at Foggy’s wrist.
"Just because I don't want you to know everything I'm thinking, all the time," he says, voice and pulse both low and steady, "Doesn't mean I want to lie to you."
Matt nods, slowly, and Foggy pats the back of his hand and lets him go. Matt hears Foggy's collar brush against the back of his neck as he nods. "Miss Page."
"Mister Nelson," Karen says back, playfully serious.
Matt waits at the center of the room until Foggy disappears behind his office door, and then spins to face Karen. Her breathing and pulse had both sped up significantly during the exchange. He cocks his head.
"Nope," Karen says. "I will not be explaining."
Matt shrugs. "Can you see if you can get a hold of Jones? She didn't answer last night, but I know she's had some dealings with these things."
"Sure thing."
"Thank you."
“...So you…”
“Can’t hear Foggy’s heartbeat.”
“Ah.”
“Yeah.”
Karen makes a curious little humming sound, and then after a moment begins typing on her laptop. "You owe us all lunch, by the way."
Matt raises his eyebrows. "I've been cursed by an evil fairy so I owe you lunch?"
"Yes."
"Great."
"I want Italian."
"Perfect."
"I thought so."
***
Matt works on a deposition while Karen manages to get Jones on the phone. He gets distracted by her cackle through the receiver even on the other side of a closed door, and rolls his eyes as he half-listens.
She has some info on the affected individuals, the line between curse and wish seems to get blurry in the explanation, but from what he can tell, most of those people that leaned into the changes in their lives wound up happier afterward. Of course, Jones reports that two of the people who reported interactions with the strange beings had ended up dead.
He takes his glasses off and rubs at his eyes, leaning back in his chair.
Foggy makes it halfway to Matt’s door before Matt notices him.
"Knock knock," Foggy says, easing the door open. His shoes creak and his shirt makes a soft noise as he leans against the door frame. "How's it going?"
"Deposition is good," Matt says, spinning in his chair to face Foggy. "You?"
“Garcia case looks good, got the draft for closing ready for you. Also, Castanza called four times last night and left several messages about how we should definitely take his case."
"Gross," Matt says lightly, tipping his head to the side.
"He actually called me a palooka in the last one, so, checking that off my bucket list."
Matt can't keep his face from wincing when Foggy says bucket list.
Foggy pushes off the door frame, taking a step into the room. "What's that face for?"
"Jones was saying a couple people died. From the curse- uh, wish," Matt flaps a hand. "Thing."
“Oh, yeah, I heard that too.”
“And you didn’t think it mattered?”
“I mean, I don’t really know what I could have done to change it,” Foggy points out. He winds up a little closer, and Matt can hear the shift of material and a deep click somewhere in Foggy’s ankle as he hikes a leg up to perch on the corner of Matt’s desk. “One of those ‘this might as well happen’ moments of living in this world. This city.”
“Hmm,” Matt responds, sullen and hating it. He feels the air shift and smells a waft of Foggy’s shampoo. He imagines Foggy ran his fingers through his hair. He places his palms down on his desk, fingers splayed, and resists the urge to reach for Foggy’s hand.
“I know what you need,” Foggy tells him. Matt curls his fingers up and holds his breath, waiting stupidly for a touch. “You need a drink.”
“A drink,” Matt says after a beat, fingers going flat again.
“To let loose. You need a good hang, man. You know what we’re doing tonight?”
Shaking his head, Matt turns in his chair, back to face his computer. “We have so much-”
“Shush. We’re going to Josie’s. We’re going old school.”
“Fog-”
“I said shush.”
“I-”
Foggy’s fingers press against Matt’s mouth, off center and firm. “Aht. No. Best friend privileges. I’m claiming a night. You’re so fucking uptight, dude.”
Matt aims his gaze at Foggy the best he can, hoping to convey the depth of his derision. “I’m fucking cursed,” he mumbles against Foggy’s fingertips. He is suddenly concretely aware that Foggy had a banana nut muffin for breakfast, and he tracks the near imperceptible thrum of blood beneath the tips of Foggy’s fingers with a dogged clarity.
“You’ve actually been granted a wish, so. I dunno. Chill out about it. Come to Josie’s with me. Buy me a drink and you can hold my hand all night.”
Matt feels his jaw open a little, before he closes it. Foggy’s fingertips drop away from his lips and he very deliberately does not lick the places they had rested.
“You can’t get mad at me when you don’t get a gal to go home with, though. People are gonna assume.”
“I don’t think I’m really in the right headspace to be taking strangers home,” Matt says quietly.
“Well, that’s alright then.”
“Who’s taking strangers home?” Karen asks, appearing in the doorway.
“Not us,” Foggy says. “But we are going to Josie’s tonight, since Mister Murdock here is a little grumpy and needs a break.”
“Oh, sweet. Jones can meet us there. She’s gathering ‘intel’.” Matt can hear the air quotes.
“Is that just…” Foggy asks.
“Gossip,” Karen clarifies.
“Perfect. Shitty alcohol and gossip. My favorite type of Thursday.”
***
“Each time we come it just smells a little bit more like barf,” Foggy sighs happily, booth squeaking beneath him as he scoots over, making room for someone to sit next to him. Matt flops down and winces at the tacky way the booth sticks to the backs of his pants as he slides in. “What’s it smell like to you?” Foggy asks him, voice thoughtful.
“A lot more like barf.”
“I’ll get the first round,” Karen says. “But it’s obviously going on your guys' tab. What are you having?”
“Something brown and flammable and cheap,” Foggy declares, apparently for the both of them, as she leaves without taking Matt’s order.
“So,” Foggy says.
“So,” Matt parrots. He folds his cane up and sets it on the booth between them.
Leaning over, Foggy rocks his shoulder into Matt’s. “How’s things?”
Matt snorts and gives a sharp little shrug. “Cursed, a little bit. You?”
“Oh, you know. Met a fairy. Same old.”
“No shit, me too.”
“Go figure. What a town, huh?”
“What a town,” Matt agrees after a moment.
Karen returns with three glasses of what Matt would say is probably whiskey, and they clunk satisfyingly into the table.
Foggy picks one up and slides the other one closer in front of Matt as Karen flops into the seat across from them, fingernail tinking solidly on the glass as he lets it go. “To New York,” he says.
“To Hell’s Kitchen,” Matt specifies, taking his up and holding it out, waiting for Foggy’s clinking cheers.
“To friendship,” Karen declares, and Matt gets a little bit of rotgut spilled over the backs of his fingers when all three glasses come together, but he can’t bring himself to mind.
The taste is fiery and familiar as it burns its way down his throat, and Foggy keeps bumping their shoulders together, and Karen keeps laughing, and after a little while he really is glad he came.
Jones arrives, and Matt is volunteered to get the next round. He doesn’t bother with his cane, dodging one stumbling patron and letting his fingertips trail over the edges of the bar when he gets close. He orders four more and waits, letting the nostalgic cacophony of the bar wash over him as he does.
He’s greeted warmly when he comes back, and when he sits back in the booth he slides a little bit closer to Foggy than he was before, close enough that his ambient warmth glows welcomingly at Matt’s side. Karen and Jones are murmuring together on the other side of the booth, and Matt can hear what they’re saying but chooses to give them their privacy once he hears Trish’s name.
“Heyyy, you bought me a drink,” Foggy says, leaning close.
“I bought everyone a drink.” Matt points out.
“Yeah, but they didn’t promise to hold your hand,” Foggy counters.
Matt dips his head in acknowledgement. “You don’t have to,” he says, fingers flexing under the table. “I made it all day.”
“You did. Good job.” Foggy’s hand slides into his, scooping it up and repositioning until both of their hands rest on Foggy’s thigh. “A promise is a promise.” There’s a little pause after that, where Foggy’s glass gets pushed across the table an inch or two, before Foggy says, low and a little halting. “Unless you totally don’t want-”
“No,” Matt says, fingers clenching reflexively around Foggy’s. “It’s good. I like- it’s good. Thanks. Thank you.”
Foggy’s foot kicks into the side of Matt’s shoe under the table. “Shut up.”
Matt smiles and grabs his drink, taking a sip.
“So,” Jones says, loudly enough to draw their attention. “Cursed, huh?”
“Barely,” Foggy estimates.
“Just a little,” Matt says, leaning back into the booth. “Tell us what you know.”
***
There doesn’t seem to be much to do about the situation but wait it out.
From most accounts of the people affected, they went about their lives and then met the creature again, later, after an non-uniform period of time. From there, they either got declared grantee of a wish, or, in the case of Grant O’Malley and Violet Keppler, wound up dead of natural causes.
Matt doesn’t appreciate the lack of agency, but the initial indignity of losing Foggy’s heartbeat is offset for the most part by Foggy’s willingness to accommodate his impulse to check up on him occasionally throughout the day.
Matt is quickly getting used to the casual intimacy of hand holding. He could probably feel Foggy’s pulse at his inner elbow as long as he wasn’t wearing a thick coat, but Foggy switches to holding his hand to help guide him on their walks without Matt having to ask.
It’s good. Matt is suspicious, but cautiously optimistic.
He makes the closing argument in the Garcia trial, and Foggy picks his hand up once he sits down, guiding Matt’s fingers to the rabbit-quick pulse at Foggy’s wrist.
“So good, dude,” Foggy breathes, leaning in close. “You nailed it.”
Matt gives him a small smile, wraps his fingers around Foggy’s wrist and gives it a quick squeeze, before turning his attention back to the judge.
Later that night, after a gratifyingly short deliberation and a not-guilty verdict, Nelson, Murdock, and Page have a little celebratory shindig at the office, just the three of them. They share a cheap bottle of champagne that’s been in the back of the little office fridge for a while, which no one quite knows the origins of, and Foggy and Karen wind up racing wheeled office chairs across their little lobby.
“Yesss!” Foggy cheers, as they rattle into each other somewhere by the door.
“What do you mean, yes?” Karen cries, and there is a sound of wheels jouncing over not-quite even hardwood and then a thwap. “I clearly won!”
“Ow! I had you beat by a mile.”
“As if, I practically had time to take another lap.”
“A blatant falsehood, Page, it was much closer than that, but I do distinctly remember turning to watch you come in second once I was here at the end. Second, which, in this case, is also last.”
“Ough!” Karen exclaims, clearly disgusted.
There’s a beat of silence, and Matt can feel gazes turn and rest on him. He takes a sip of the very dry champagne and gives a little toast. “I mean, it sounded great, guys. Good, uh, good effort. Probably.”
“I’m detecting a small but significant amount of sarcasm from the judges,” Karen says.
“I think the real winner here,” Matt says, “Is probably our downstairs neighbors. They must feel so blessed to be a part of this historic occasion.”
“Oh god, are they still here?” Karen laughs.
Matt focuses his senses downward. “Mm, no, actually.”
“Well, they really missed out,” Foggy declares, shoes thumping and wheels squeaking as he walks himself and his chair over to the desk where his champagne is. Under his breath, before taking his next sip, he whispers a bitchy little, “On my victory.” It’s just loud enough for Karen to hear, clearly on purpose, and he is assaulted, a moment later, by Karen’s shoe, which bounces off some soft part of him and thuds to the floor. “Ow, jeez! Somebody call HR; this is getting out of hand.”
As if on cue, the phone in Foggy’s office rings, and he stands up from his conveyance, setting his champagne-filled coffee mug down. “That must be them. Finally getting back to me. It’s about time, honestly,” he grumbles happily as he makes his way to his office, “the amount of complaints I’ve filed.”
Karen’s other shoe whips through the air and bounces off the wall by Foggy’s door.
“I get no respect!” he proclaims, and slams the door behind him.
“So who won?” Matt asks, turning back to Karen.
“Oh, he did,” She says easily. She toes herself over to where Foggy’s mug rests and helps herself to it, leaning back into her chair with a creak and sigh of contentment. “Gotta keep him humble.”
Matt grins at her and takes a sip of his own drink, spinning idly in his chair a few inches to either side.
“He’s been different, lately,” Karen says after a moment, and Matt raises his eyebrows. “A little, hmm. Like he was when I first met you guys. A little less… careful, I guess. Less tightly wound. It’s nice.”
Matt feels something sink a little, in his chest. He’s noticed it, too, and been enjoying it without reading too much into it. Now that Karen’s pointed it out, though, he can’t help but correlate it to the fact that for the past few days Foggy hasn’t had to worry about Matt passively spying on him at all times.
There have been plenty of times in Matt’s life that he’s resented his senses, what they’ve done to him and how they’ve shaped his life. The thought that they’re directly responsible for changing Foggy in such a way, forcing him to wall off parts of himself from the world, from Matt - that makes him seethe, suddenly, with a hate he hasn’t felt in a long, long time.
Thinking about Foggy brings him into focus to Matt’s senses, and he suddenly realizes that Foggy’s pleasant business tone has been replaced with a more terse, no-nonsense inflection. He turns to face Foggy’s office, frowning, as Foggy snaps out a “Good night,” and hangs the phone up without waiting for a response.
“Everything okay?” Karen asks as the door swings open.
“Yeah I- hang on. Are you- is that my drink?”
Matt nods.
“No,” Karen lies.
“All sides,” Foggy says, exasperated. “From all sides. I can’t catch a break.”
“Hey,” Matt says, holding out his own paper cup of horrible champagne. “I’m on your side.”
“Aw,” Karen says, and then gags exaggeratedly.
Foggy accepts the cup, taking a swig before handing it back and flopping noisily back into his chair. “All sides but one,” he amends happily, before challenging Karen to a rematch.
***
Matt is still keyed up once he gets home, skin tingling with the adrenaline of a win and body urging him to move, to get out, to run.
He dons his suit and makes his way out into the city.
It’s quiet, as nights in Hell’s Kitchen go, and Matt finds himself thinking more deeply than he wants to as he makes his way across rooftops. His mind turns back to Foggy with an inevitability that’s predictable at this point. Foggy, and the way he holds his hands out to Matt, now, the moment Matt makes a gesture like he might want to check in. Foggy, and the way his voice gets richer and breathy with laughter, teasing and indulgent, when Matt sits too close. Foggy, and the welcoming, uncomplicated friendliness that had drawn Matt to him back when they’d first met.
Glass breaks a block away, and Matt snaps to attention. It’s the sound of a bottle shattering against cement. Not necessarily nefarious, but suspicious enough that Matt wants to get closer.
He swings over the edge of the roof and jumps across fire escapes, climbing back up to the top and jogging to the other side. Perching on the edge of the brick-lined roof wall, he listens close.
“Oh there you are,” a voice says, and Matt flinches, almost falling back out of his crouch. The voice is not accompanied by a heartbeat.
A chuckle echoes into the alley below, and the voice grates like stone on stone as it beckons, “Come down from there, little gargoyle. I think it’s time we had a chat.”
Matt hesitates only a moment, before he makes his way down to the damp cement at the bottom of the alley. His boots grind grit into the ground beneath him as he lands and straightens up, and a mocking little clap fills the air.
“Bravo, I suppose,” the thing says, and Matt twists, trying to zero-in on the origin of the sound without success.
“What do you want?” Matt asks, unwilling to play any sort of game with the creature, and painfully aware he might not have a choice.
The thing tuts, a flutter of pigeon wings reverberating in the sound, and an ice-cold gust of wind hits the exposed lower-half of Matt’s face. “Don’t pout. It suits you, but don’t do it right now. We’ve got important things to discuss.”
“What…” Matt sniffs and readjusts his weight, head cocking as he listens for something, anything that might give him some idea of what or where this thing is. Something prickles at the back of his neck, and he slowly spins to face the feeling of being watched. “What do you want to discuss?”
“Your young man’s heart, obviously.”
Matt feels his own heartbeat increase, fluttering uncomfortably in his chest.
“And how you can’t be trusted with it. Not really.”
Swallowing, Matt closes his eyes tightly behind his mask, unable to refute the thing’s words.
“You and I,” the thing says, and the voice is close, under him and billowing up, like steam from a sidewalk grate. “We don’t always see eye to eye.”
Caught out, Matt snorts, and the thing gives a high-pitched, eerie little chuckle, the hiss-clank of a radiator hiding in the sound. “Oh sorry. Insensitive of me.”
“Can you get to the point, please?” Matt asks, suddenly so tired.
“The point is, Matthew Murdock, that despite your tendency to get in my way, and in your own way, there’s one point that we agree on.” The voice sweetens here, softening into a familiar tone, and Matt smells Foggy’s shampoo and aftershave, ghostly and disorienting as a radiating warmth suffuses him and is gone again in an instant. “The young man you were walking with, last time we spoke.”
Matt is struck with a pang of want. It tastes like warm, shitty whiskey and cold, shitty champagne, and fills up his throat like Foggy’s breathless laughter when something tickles him in just the right way.
“Yes,” the thing says, a smile curling through the words. “Him.”
“Please,” Matt says, voice tight with fear.
“Oh hush. I wouldn’t hurt him. He’s always been one of my favorites. Took me a while,” the thing admits, “To figure out what I could grant him, but we got there in the end. Didn’t we?”
Matt feels something tighten around him, feels crowded, buffeted and held like being in the crush of a packed subway car, and his arms twitch down at his sides, fingers curling around nothing but a memory.
“Is he more open now?” it asks, the question whispered from behind his ear. “Now that he doesn’t have to carefully measure and second-guess every interaction he has with you?”
Matt takes a stumbling step forward, breaking out of whatever has caught him up, and his boot splashes into a puddle of something ice-cold and piercing, shocking him into a sucked-in breath. The feeling is gone in an instant.
The disorientingly comforting scent of a deep, rich broth buffets around him, the savory crackle of dumplings fried in oil, the sound of a metal spoon scraping a wok. “I’m feeling magnanimous,” the thing announces, “and you haven’t got much time, so, I’m willing to settle on a compromise.”
“A compromise,” Matt echoes dumbly, turning to follow the sound of a skittering rat.
He doesn’t know how, but he feels sure the thing is retreating, it’s hollow, too-slick words sounding farther and farther away, bouncing off the brick of the walls in the alley. “How about, when you really need to, you’ll be able to hear it, hmm?”
Matt turns again, spinning slowly, the absence of powerful sensations almost as unsettling as the abundance of it.
“I need an answer, dickhead,” the thing says after a long moment, wry and far too close.
Jumping, Matt twists and lashes out, before remembering at the last second that some of the people dealing with this thing, or things like it, had died. “A compromise,” Matt says, flooded with memories of Foggy’s heartbeat, a steady soundtrack accompanying the best times of his life. His arms drop. “Yes. Please.”
“Fucking finally,” the thing sighs, and is gone.
Matt is immediately and overwhelmingly aware of the sound of Foggy’s heartbeat. It thunders, hard and electric fast, reverberating through Matt’s whole body at a counterpoint to his own pulse.
Foggy is scared.
“Fuck,” Matt breathes, and begins to run.
***
“Listen,” Foggy says, voice straining in a way that makes Matt want to gnash his teeth. “I’ve got a few points, a few things we need to settle. The first is, you can’t just do crime in front of your attorney.”
Matt makes his way as quickly as he can over the top of Foggy’s apartment building.
“The second point: you also, like, for real, cannot do crime to your attorney. That’s just, I don’t know where you’re at in your life that that’s a thing I have to explain, but for sure, guy, you cannot do crime to your attorney.”
Matt drops onto the fire escape and makes his way down, boots as quiet as he can make them on the metal grating.
“And third, and I feel like, maybe this is the most important, just, to me, personally,” Foggy says, and cuts himself off to cough painfully, causing Matt to wince in sympathy.
“I,” Foggy grates out through gritted teeth, the sound clear now, through his cracked-open bedroom window outside of which Matt lands in a crouch. “Am one hundred percent. Not. Your attorney.”
Matt takes a moment to ascertain how many other heartbeats sound in Foggy’s apartment, finds it’s just the one, and then allows himself to acknowledge the scent of blood.
He takes one more beat to clock the sound of the gun, weighty carbon steel and plastic polymer shifting between a waistband and a tucked-in silk shirt, and then shoves the window all the way open and moves through, interrupting an indignant response from Mr Castanza with one powerful blow to the back of his head.
“Oh shit,” Foggy whispers, the iron smell of blood on his breath. Matt moves towards him, hands hovering over shoulders, down his arms, to reach the zip-ties around his wrists. “I’m so glad to see you. Is he dead?” Foggy asks, shifting his hands helpfully to expose the zipties.
Matt grabs a utility knife from his belt and shakes his head. “He’s not dead, just out cold.” He cuts through the ties as quickly as he can. “Where did he hurt you?”
“Socked me in the jaw,” Foggy tells him, hands meeting in front of himself as he rubs at his own wrists. Matt crouches in front of him. “Couple of body shots.” Matt nods and runs his hands over the tops of Foggy’s thighs, over his knees and down to his ankles, which are also zip-tied together. “For a little guy he sure packs a punch.”
“So do I,” Matt points out with a grim satisfaction as he frees Foggy’s ankles. Foggy’s heartbeat rings in Matt’s head, slowing down but still elevated.
“I know. I saw. Thank you for coming.” Foggy’s hands reach out for Matt’s free hand as the other tucks the knife back away. They bring his fingers to Foggy’s wrist, pressing the pads of them against the hot, thin skin there.
Matt feels Foggy’s pulse echo through him comfortingly for a moment from two different sources, before shifting his grip, curling Foggy’s fingers within his.
“I can hear it. Now. For now.” He tells him. “I can hear it again.”
Foggy stiffens in front of him, heartrate stuttering before starting up faster.
“What?”
“I was, I met that… thing. Again. Tonight.”
“Oh shit.”
“It- uh. We came to a compromise.”
Foggy takes in a slow, shaky breath, and squeezes Matt’s fingers back. “You compromised with an evil fairy creature?”
“I think it wanted to hurry up and get it over with,” Matt says, thinking back, as he pushes himself to his feet and helps Foggy to stand. “I’m pretty sure it just wanted me to rescue you. It likes you.”
Iron blood scent and anxiety whoosh out of Foggy in a deep, exhaling breath. His pulse no longer rings in Matt’s head, only thrumming gently under the skin where Matt holds him. “The evil fairy creature. Likes me.”
Matt snorts. “You’re its favorite.”
“You’re fucking with me.”
Shaking his head, Matt swings Foggy’s hands between them and lets one go, adjusting his grip on the other. “Nope.”
“What’s the compromise?”
“I can only hear it when I need to,” Matt tells him. “It’s gone now, but, the moment I agreed, I could hear it, I could feel your heart racing, all through me. Way too far away to actually hear it.”
“No shit.” Foggy breathes. “It gave me a magic Life Alert.”
“Yeah,” Matt laughs. “You’re its favorite,” he points out again, grinning, now that the reality of Foggy being safe and them both surviving a fucking magical New York fairy creature encounter truly sinks in.
Foggy’s heart rate speeds up, and is momentarily echoed in Matt’s hearing, before fading away again.
Matt cocks his head.
“...What?” Foggy asks, suspicious and suddenly wary.
“You’ve been…” Matt starts, haltingly, and checks on Castanza’s slow breathing before pulling his mask off with one hand and dropping it on the foot of Foggy’s bed. “You’ve been different,” he says, turning to face Foggy fully, holding both of his hands between them. “Less worried, um, less careful around me. Lately. And I-”
“You don’t have to-”
“I missed it so much,” Matt breathes. “I didn’t even know I was missing it. And I’m-” He huffs out a faltering breath. “I’m so sorry that how I am made you feel less safe.”
“God, shut up,” Foggy says, voice thick, and pulls him into a hug.
Matt melts into Foggy’s warm embrace.
Foggy’s breath hitches, and Matt pulls back a little. “Are you- are your ribs-”
“It’s fine,” Foggy laughs, tugging him back. “It’s fucking fine. Keep hugging me, we’re having a moment.”
“I love you,” Matt tells him, heart aching in his chest, and feels and hears Foggy’s pulse surge against him.
“God, okay. Fuck,” Foggy says, face turned into Matt’s neck and voice buried in his shoulder. “Obviously, I love you too.”
Matt feels his own heart rate swell at Foggy’s words, and is struck by a realization.
He pulls back, a little, one hand coming up to curl around the back of Foggy’s neck, the other reaching for Foggy’s hand, tugging and pressing until Foggy’s fingertips rest at the pulse point at the base of Matt’s own throat. “Tell me again.”
“Matt-”
“Please.”
“I love you.”
Matt has no way of tracking any change in Foggy’s expression, but he hears the dry click of a swallow, feels the acceleration of breath as his heart races to the beat of Foggy’s words.
He feels a shadow of the creature’s impossible emply voice, a small whisper of exasperated contempt in the back of his mind, urging him on. Matt swats it away with a dismissive twitch of his shoulders, and leans forward, pressing his lips to Foggy’s.
There is a moment in which Matt can’t hear a single thing - a blissful pocket of sanctuary, where the only thing he can feel is Foggy’s lips against his and Foggys chest against his and Foggy’s touch at his vulnerable throat. Heat swells and time slows, and then the world presses tenderly in at the edges of Matt’s senses again, tucking itself gently into his awareness, alongside the solace of Foggy’s scent and feel and taste. Foggy’s hand shifts to cup his jaw. Foggy’s knee presses in between Matt’s, swaying them closer together. Foggy makes a broken little noise in the back of his throat.
Matt breaks the kiss but doesn’t move away, setting his forehead against Foggy’s and panting into the shared air between them.
“Holy shit,” Foggy remarks, and Matt nods against him. His hands drag across Foggy, dropping from his neck to sweep down his back, falling from his wrist to glide up his arm and grip his shoulder. “That was… Holy shit.”
“It wasn’t a curse,” Matt admits, smiling into the huff of Foggy’s laughter.
“Wasn’t a curse,” Foggy agrees.
Castanza groans from his spot on the floor, and Foggy squeaks and jumps, jerking back from Matt. “Fucking- fuck. Jesus. I forgot about him.”
“So did I,” Matt acknowledges. “He’s coming around.”
“Ugh. I guess. Put your mask back on and help me tie him up. He has more stupid zip ties. I’ll call the cops.”
Matt nods and steps away, scooping up his mask from Foggy’s bed and pulling it over his head.
“And then,” Foggy says, rifling through something on the floor. “After that…”
“After that,” Matt prompts, turning his face towards Foggy.
“We’ll talk.”
Matt nods.
“And… other stuff.”
Matt grins.
He hangs around on the roof long enough to listen to the cops arrive.
“Are you okay, sir?” the woman asks as Foggy opens the door.
There’s a beat, and Matt can picture Foggy giving a shrug, in his mind. “Oh, I’m fine. Actually, uh, actually I'm doing really, really well.”
Matt doesn’t need to hear his heartbeat to tell it’s the absolute truth.