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“Ah, he’s coming over, he’s coming over!” Foggy lets out a sound that he will later deny bears an uncanny resemblance to a squeak, and dives behind Matt.


Matt twists around in his chair, glances in Foggy’s general direction with an amused expression. “Should I go, or –” He moves as if to get up, one hand reaching for his cane, which he left propped up against the table.


No,” Foggy hisses vehemently, forcing Matt back into his chair by virtue of several relentless tugs on the back of his coat. “You are not leaving me with him, Murdock.”


Matt opens his mouth, probably to reply with something scathing or sarcastic or both, but just then a voice rings out in the quite hum of the coffee shop they’re in, loud and grating, “Foggy? Foggy Nelson? Is that you?”


Foggy winces, straightening from the defensive crouch he’d taken up behind Matt’s chair. Matt presses his lips together to keep from laughing. He’s mostly successful.


“Jackson, hi, didn’t see you there,” Foggy says, sliding back into his recently vacated chair. “But then again, it’s a pretty big coffee shop, and I wasn’t facing the counter anyway, so really, the chances of me having seen you would have been low. Very low, like, minus zero low.”


Foggy snaps his mouth shut once he realizes he’s babbling, and prays for Jackson to leave. He does no such thing. Instead, he pulls out the only other chair at their small table and plants his ass down like he means to stay. Foggy resigns himself to a lifetime’s worth of humiliation.


“So, heard that you landed that internship at Landman and Zack,” Jackson says without preamble, nodding at Foggy like an approving father would a child. It’s all Foggy can do not to punch him in his smirking face. “Also heard that you’re planning on throwing it away and starting some hole in the wall firm with your faggot friend.”


Matt feels Foggy visibly bristle at that, and snakes a hand under the table to squeeze Foggy’s knee gently. It helps; Foggy uncurls the fist he doesn’t remember clenching.


“Listen, Jackson, I put up with enough of your bullshit in high school,” Foggy snaps, and is extremely proud that his voice only trembles slightly. “What I do with my degree is none of your fucking business. And for your information, starting this ‘hole in the wall’ firm with Matt –” he gestures at Matt, who chooses this moment to flash Jackson a winning smile, “– is the best damn idea I’ve had in, like, ever.”


Matt leans forward then, slinging an arm over the back of Foggy’s chair as he does. “Boyfriends,” he says out of nowhere, and steals a sip of Foggy’s cappuccino.


“What?” Foggy and Jackson both turn to stare at Matt like he’s sprouted a second head.


“You thought Foggy was starting a firm with, and I quote, his ‘faggot friend’,” Matt elaborates, “Just thought I’d make things clear – Foggy and I aren’t friends. We’ve been dating for – oh, it’s been so long. When did we start dating, Fog?”


Matt tilts his face expectantly towards Foggy, who, incidentally, is feeling rather like he’s missed the memo for National Make Fun of Foggy Day. “It’s, ah, it’s been,” Foggy stalls, wondering what an acceptably believable length of time is, “Three years. We got together our second year of college. Fourth of July, right, baby?”


Foggy feels a gleeful sort of pleasure as Matt’s teeth grind together with an audible click at the pet name. (Matt loathes pet names.) His victory, however, turns out to be incredibly short-lived.


“How could I forget?” Matt says, and fuck, because Matt’s doing something to his voice, lowering it so he’s practically purring, and Foggy really should not be finding this as hot as he does. “Our love, you see,” Matt tells a stunned-into-silence Jackson matter-of-factly, “Is very –” he pauses like he’s searching for the right word, and finally settles on, “– explosive.”


It takes less than a minute after that for Jackson to push his chair back and bid a hasty retreat from the café, not even stopping to collect the latte he’d ordered and paid for.


It takes considerably longer than a minute for Matt and Foggy to stop laughing long enough to form coherent sentences.


“My God, Matt, the look on his face!” Foggy crows, slapping his hand against the surface of the table so hard his coffee rattles in its saucer. “Thanks for helping me out there, buddy.”


The grin doesn’t fall from Matt’s face, exactly, but it does get smaller, his mouth now a tense, tight line.


“Hey,” Foggy says softly, shifting so his leg is pressed against Matt’s under the table. Matt startles and goes rigid as a statue, but he doesn’t move his leg. “You know I’d do the same for you, right? You need someone to cover your ass, or be your fake boyfriend or whatever, you can count on me.”


“Yeah,” Matt says, giving Foggy an entirely unconvincing smile, “I know.”



Matt wakes to his phone chirping relentlessly. He groans, flings an arm out to switch the alarm off, realizes it’s not the alarm, and eventually manages to pick up the call.




“Matt, hey, buddy,” says Foggy, sounding far too awake for – Matt hits his alarm, which parrots the time to him – 5:07am. “Listen, am I interrupting anything?”

“Yeah,” Matt says tersely, “I was asleep, Fog, like all normal people would be. It’s 5 in the morning, what’re you even doing this early?”


“I – uh,” Foggy says. Matt can hear him pacing as he runs his free hand through his hair, seven steps from the couch to the TV, seven steps back again.


“You’ve been up all night worrying about something, haven’t you?”

“Maybe,” Foggy hedges, then sighs. Matt hears him flop gracelessly onto his couch. “It’s just – remember Jackson?”


Matt pauses. “Jackson from the café, Mr. Hole In the Wall – that Jackson?”


“Yep, that would be the one.” Foggy sounds resigned, defeated, and Matt finds himself wanting to let Daredevil loose on Jackson. Just for a while. “After we bumped into him, he went and told – oh, let’s see – everyone about you. About us.”


“Oh,” Matt says, suddenly feeling much more awake. He sits up, covers falling to pool in his lap. “And that’s bad because…?”


Because,” Foggy says forcefully, and now he’s heaving himself to his feet and pacing again, this time as far as the kitchen before he doubles back. “I got a text last night. There’s gonna be a reunion next week and I said yes because I wasn’t thinking and now everyone’s expecting you to be there too. As my boyfriend, and I just – shit, Matt, what do I do?”


“Foggy, sit down and breathe,” Matt says, gratified when Foggy obeys without a word. “Look, it’s no big deal. I’ll just go to the reunion with you.”


“That’s –” Foggy sounds torn. Between what, Matt doesn’t know. “Matt, are you sure? I can always–”


“It’s cool,” Matt says, trying to sound a lot calmer than he feels. His heart is beating a staccato rhythm against his chest just at the thought of being Foggy’s (pretend) boyfriend for an entire evening. “But you’re gonna have to buy me a drink.”


Foggy laughs, the sound like music to Matt’s ears. “If we pull this off, Murdock, a drink is the least I’ll be getting you.”



“What’s my favourite colour?”




“Favourite boy band?”


“Backstreet Boys, if you really had to pick one.”


“Favourite food?”


“Chinese. More specifically, the egg rolls.”


“Favourite place to wind down after an extremely gruelling day at work?”


Matt snorts at that one. “Foggy, I hardly think they’re going to ask me what your favourite after-work haunts are.”


“We gotta make this believable, Matt,” Foggy says, undeterred. “Now come on, you promised.” One of Foggy’s hands comes up to rest on the back of Matt’s neck. Matt really hopes he can’t feel his rapidly thrumming pulse, just inches away.


“Josie’s,” Matt relents, leaning into Foggy’s touch and trying to be subtle about it. “But then, anyone who’s known you for a week would know you frequent Josie’s.”


“Oh, Matt,” Foggy says, shaking his head, “I’m shaking my head, by the way. You say that like you’re not also one of the main reasons business is booming for Josie.”


“Shut up,” Matt lobs a cushion at Foggy’s head, cackling when it hits the side of his face.


“Y’know, for a guy who can’t see, you’ve got surprisingly good aim,” Foggy tells him, chucking the cushion back.


Matt shifts at the last second so the cushion sails over his head harmlessly.


“Y’know, for someone who can see,” Matt drawls, glancing in Foggy’s general direction smugly, “You have piss-poor aim.”


“I’m flipping you off, Matt,” Foggy informs him, raising his middle finger.



The evening of the reunion comes too soon for Foggy’s liking. He fidgets the entire cab ride, his knee bouncing, his hands twisting together in his lap with all the restless energy he doesn’t know how to expend.


He only stops when Matt scoots over, sitting close enough that their sides are pressed together, knee to hip to shoulder, and places a hand on Foggy’s knee.


Foggy’s knee stills of its own volition. “Relax,” Matt murmurs in his ear, “We’ll be fine. They won’t suspect a thing.”


It turns out that Matt’s right, for once.


The reunion passes without a hitch, with Foggy playing the besotted boyfriend and Matt being… well, Matt. He plays the blind card about fifty times during the course of the evening and when he ‘accidentally’ rams into a waitress bearing a tray of drinks, spilling assorted cocktails down the front of Jackson’s dress shirt, it’s all Foggy can do not to laugh.


It’s surprisingly easy, Foggy finds, to be fake-dating Matt. Foggy answers most of the questions fired at them, and when he slips up or can’t remember their carefully formulated game plan, Matt steps in and covers for him with the same ease he has when they’re in court.


There’s a tense moment, after everyone’s second glass of champagne and before dessert, where Taylor leans over and says, way too loudly, “So, Matt, I heard your first date was magical,” and Matt just freezes, eyes wide and panicked behind his glasses.


Foggy’s heart drops, settling in his stomach like a stone. He barely refrains from smacking himself in the forehead because of course they would’ve forgotten to think up a plausible first date story and of course it’s coming back to bite them in the ass.


“Um, yeah – it was,” is what Matt eventually settles on, “It was definitely something,” while Foggy desperately tries to non-verbally convey to a blind man that he may or may not have panicked and said Disneyland as their first date during Jackson’s interrogation of their relationship.


“The fireworks were pretty amazing,” Foggy chimes in enthusiastically, slinging an arm over the back of Matt’s chair as he leans forward on the pretence of talking to Taylor, muttering a quiet, “It was Disneyland, Matt. Just go with it,” in Matt’s ear as he does so.


“Yes! The fireworks,” Matt agrees, nodding vigorously. “They were grea – I mean, Foggy tells me they were great. For all I know it could’ve been incredibly shitty.”


Foggy breathes a sigh of relief as he takes a sip of champagne to ease the knot in his stomach. Beside him, Matt appears to be gathering steam, and is busy crafting the story of the non-existent time they spent at Disneyland together.


“…The highlight of the day was when Foggy threw up after Space Mountain like a wimp,” Matt concludes, smirking widely.


Foggy seriously contemplates punching Matt, but Taylor appears to be hanging on to his every word, and Foggy really can’t afford to have Matt backing out of their fake relationship before dinner’s over, so he flashes everyone an admittedly forced smile and shrugs. “In my defense, that burrito I had for lunch was at least ninety per cent responsible.”


He gets a couple laughs out of the group, and he sees Jackson mouth, “Space Mountain, really?” over the top of Matt’s head, like he’s re-evaluating his entire opinion on Foggy’s masculinity right now.


Foggy reaches for his champagne flute, finds it all empty, and reaches over to steal Matt’s. He downs the thing in one gulp because he needs more alcohol in his system like, ten years ago.


Thankfully, Matt saves him like the damsel he is, swooping in like he’s done so many times over the course of the night and single-handedly taking everyone’s attention off Foggy with a, “Next round’s on me!” that has the entire table whooping.



An hour and many drinks later, it’s unanimously decided that dessert should be chocolate lava cake, because Foggy’s high school friends appear to make some good decisions in life, at least.


The cake arrives, the smell of chocolate and rum sauce hitting Matt like a train wreck when he realizes how hungry he is. He’d been too wound up during dinner to eat much, too busy trying to juggle being Foggy’s boyfriend and answering the dozens of questions fired at him on all sides. Really, Taylor alone is a menace. Put her and her gossipy friends together and it’d been like being faced with the Spanish Inquisition.


Matt’s got a spoonful of sauce-drenched cake raised to his mouth when he’s struck with an idea. (Granted, it’s probably just the champagne talking, but Matt thinks it might actually be the best idea he’s ever come up with.)


He scoots his chair closer to Foggy’s discreetly, leans in close so his mouth brushes the shell of Foggy’s ear. “Here,” he says, and raises his spoon to Foggy’s lips. Next to him, Taylor squeals and coos about what a cute couple they make to a very disgruntled Jackson.


“Wha –” Foggy says, which is a mistake because Matt seizes his chance, placing the spoon in Foggy’s mouth so he chokes a little in surprise. But Foggy gamely chews, swallows, and Matt hears his eyes flutter closed as he lets out an appreciate groan. “Mm, this is good. Also, why did you feed me dessert.”


“To make this believable,” says Matt, in what he hopes is a reasonable tone of voice. Something that doesn’t give off I-want-to-bone-you vibes. He thinks he manages just fine. “Just shut up and go with it.” He raises another spoonful of cake to Foggy’s mouth.


“Nope,” Foggy pushes his hand away, and Matt opens his mouth, ready to start apologizing, but then Foggy takes the spoon from him and places it in Matt’s mouth.


“Close your mouth and chew, buddy,” Foggy says, and Matt realizes he’s been staring in Foggy’s direction, slack-jawed and possibly with chocolate sauce smeared on his lips, for the past five seconds.


He closes his mouth and chews. He thinks it might be the best cake he’s ever tasted.


Or maybe he’s just incredibly biased about everything when it comes to Foggy.



They make it back to Foggy’s apartment relatively early, at a quarter past two. And yep, Foggy considers that early, thank you very much. Early in the morning, true, but he’s not one to bother with semantics.


“You want anything to drink?” he tosses over his shoulder at Matt, who’s sprawled comfortably on his couch.


“Just water, thanks.”

Foggy plops down besides Matt, hands him a bottle of water, and finds himself distracted by the line of Matt’s throat as he drinks. He looks away guiltily, not that it makes a difference because Matt can’t actually tell he’s even looking, Jesus.


“Thanks for doing this tonight, Matt,” he says instead, addressing his coffee table, “It – it, uh. It means a lot, that you’d do that. For me.”


“You’re welcome, Fog,” Matt says softly, shifting closer so he’s leaning against Foggy’s shoulder, their sides pressed together, and something in Foggy’s chest clenches, wrapping tight around his ribcage until it’s difficult to breathe, because Matt only ever calls him that when he’s a) feeling extremely sarcastic or b) feeling extremely fond of him.


Foggy really, really hopes Matt’s leaning towards the latter. He sure as hell is.



Things go back to normal after The Night, as Matt’s taken to calling it in the privacy of his own head. Matt goes back to his lawyer by day, vigilante by night routine, and pretends not to notice the easy banter that exists between Foggy and Karen, the way Karen’s heartbeat picks up every time Foggy smiles at her.


The only thing that keeps Matt from doing something he’ll inevitably regret is the reassurance of Foggy’s heartbeat. It stays steady throughout all his interactions with Karen.


It’s probably all kinds of petty, but Matt can’t help feeling incredibly smug whenever Foggy laughs so hard at something hesaid that he has to hang bodily onto Matt to keep his balance, or when Matt does something perfectly innocuous like stretch so his shirt hikes up just a bit, and Foggy’s heartbeat stutters and speeds up.


They’re not dating or even fake-dating, and it’s not exactly what Matt wants their relationship to be, but for now, it’s enough.



Then Matt stumbles onto Union Allied and Fisk’s radar, Hell’s Kitchen gets blown up, and staying alive becomes his top priority, leaving him very little time to think about The Night, about Foggy.


“You okay, buddy?” Foggy asks one day, after a particularly bad run-in with the Russians leaves Matt with a distinctly visible limp and more bruises than he can count.


“I – yeah,” Matt says from where he’s sitting slumped over at his kitchen table, aiming for reassuring and probably missing by a mile.


“You don’t look okay.” Foggy’s hovering, one of his hands fluttering over a vicious cut on Matt’s cheek, before he seems to think better of it and retracts his hand.


“It’s nothing,” says Matt, waving a nonchalant hand and wincing when the movement aggravates his bruised ribs. “I just – fell down a couple stairs.”


“Must’ve been some really nasty stairs,” Foggy says, drawing the words out slowly, and Matt can tell by the tone of his voice that he doesn’t for one moment believe him.


There’s a long, drawn-out pause where Matt twists his hands together in his lap. Finally Foggy sighs and sinks down into the seat across from him. “You know you can tell me anything, right? If you need to, I don’t know, get something off your chest –” Foggy spreads his hands wide, “I’m just sayin’. You’re my best bro. That’s what I’m here for.”


“Yeah, Foggy,” Matt sighs, reaching across the table and patting Foggy’s forearm. “I know. Thanks.”


Foggy leaves soon after, but not before he putters around Matt’s kitchen, making hot chocolate that he places in front of Matt. “Take care of yourself, buddy,” Foggy says, squeezing Matt’s shoulder on his way to the door.


The first sip nearly burns the taste buds off Matt’s tongue, so he blows furiously and tries again. It turns out Foggy’s found mini marshmallows from God knows where (because Matt certainly doesn’t stock them in his cupboards) and added them to the chocolate.


The second sip is perfect, and Matt does his best to ignore the voice in his head that tells him he doesn’t deserve this, doesn’t deserve Foggy, not even as a best friend, because all he’s been doing for the past few weeks is lie to him.



When Matt literally crawls through his own window and crashes onto the floor of his apartment after his fight with Nobu, he doesn’t have the presence of mind to be horrified by Foggy finding out about this, about Daredevil.


He passes out to the sound of Foggy saying in a horrible, broken voice, “Matt?”



Matt wakes up aching all over and the weight of his guilt sitting, heavy and crushing, on his chest.


“Fog, I can explain –” are the first words he croaks out.


“Save it.” Foggy’s voice is low, and he’s sitting in the armchair opposite Matt, even though there’s plenty of space left on the couch.


“I’m sor –” Matt tries again, but Foggy’s having none of it.


“Don’t you trust me?” Foggy cuts in, voice harsh, his breathing ragged enough that Matt knows he wouldn’t need his heightened hearing to pick it up.


Yes, of course I do,” Matt says emphatically. It’s not enough.


“You’ve got what’s-her-name, your nurse friend, on speed dial, and you call her every time you should go to the hospital but don’t.” Foggy stands up with enough force that the armchair skids back a couple feet. Matt listens as he paces up and down the length of the room, scrubbing his hands through his hair. He stops suddenly, whirls to face Matt. “You’re my best friend, Matt,” he says, voice quiet and subdued, “And apparently you don’t even trust me enough to let me help when you’re hurt.”


Matt tries to sit up, then winces when he pulls his stitches. “I’d trust you with my life, Foggy.”


Foggy says nothing for several long moments, and when Matt sucks in his next breath he finds out why. The tang of salt is sharp in the air, and it’s almost as if Matt can taste Foggy’s tears on his tongue.


“Sure doesn’t look like it,” Foggy finally says, and his voice sounds like it’s breaking.


Matt blinks rapidly because his eyes are watering. “I’m –”


Except then Foggy launches into a tirade about everything Matt’s been keeping from him, from his heightened senses and reflexes to Daredevil, and Matt knows he owes Foggy at least this much, so he keeps his mouth shut and lets Foggy rant.


“What the fuck do you mean, you can sort of see?” Foggy yells, his body temperature climbing higher as his face flushes. “Are you even blind?” He stalks over to the couch, gives Matt the finger. “How many fingers am I holding up, huh?”


One,” Matt whispers, closing his eyes and sinking back into the couch. His chest feels too tight, his throat too narrow to let oxygen into his lungs. Every breath hurts.


“I’m leaving,” is all Foggy says as he grabs his jacket off the back of the armchair.


Matt doesn’t try to stop him.



The next few weeks are hell.


Matt finds the sign – their sign – in the trash can the first time he ventures into the office. He can feel Karen’s pitying gaze on him as he runs his hand over the engraved words, over ‘Nelson and Murdock’.


He puts the sign back in the bin, ignoring the stinging in his eyes, because he deserves this.


The first time he and Foggy come face to face after – after, they awkwardly skirt around each other, pretend everything is fine for Karen’s benefit.


Once Karen figures out what they’re doing, they drop the act altogether and completely ignore each other instead.


The tension between them is so thick whenever they’re in the same room that Matt’s practically choking on it. He spends his time at the firm shut away in his office, only emerging when Foggy’s left.


So one Thursday night, once Foggy’s left the firm, Matt packs his things and makes for the door. He’s so preoccupied with dodging Karen’s questions about his general wellbeing that he doesn’t hear Foggy outside the door until he’s opened it.


Foggy basically walks into him, and okay, maybe Matt could have moved out of the way before contact was inevitable, but he’s sick of this game they’re playing and he misses Foggy.


“Sorry,” Foggy mutters, ducking his head as he shuffles awkwardly past Matt, back into the office. “Left my keys.”


Matt’s left standing by the door, wondering whether he imagined hearing Foggy’s heartbeat speed up just now.



Matt has another unfortunate run-in with Team Fisk of the Hell’s Kitchen police department, after which he drags himself back to his apartment, contemplates calling Claire, but in the end he just downs some scotch and patches himself up.


He makes himself a cup of hot chocolate, but he’s out of marshmallows because he doesn’t usually stock them.


The chocolate slides, scalding and bitter, down his throat, and Matt has never felt so alone.



Two weeks later the police put Fisk behind bars, which is all well and good until Fisk escapes, so Matt dons the suit for the first time and puts Fisk behind bars, hopefully permanently.


His credibility with the media skyrockets, he and Foggy can afford a much better office, and Nelson and Murdock is officially back in business.


That’s not to say that he and Foggy are back in business, per se. There are still subjects that they edge around, still times when Matt swears he can smell the bitterness in the air when Daredevil is mentioned.


But Foggy seems happy for things to go back to something like they were before. He talks about them and Karen making a difference for Hell’s Kitchen post-Fisk, about los grandes avocados, and promises not to tell Karen about Matt’s alter ego.


Which, all things considered, is far more than what Matt deserves.



“Foggy! Foooooggy.”


When he can no longer ignore the incessant knocking, Foggy drags himself out of bed and hits the light switch. The clock on his bedside table reads 2:14am.


Jesus, Matt,” Foggy says as he opens the door, “You realize it’s two in the morning?”


“Yes,” Matt says, nodding seriously, like what Foggy’s said is a goddamn state secret. “It’s very early.”


“Or very late, depending on your point of view,” Foggy says dryly. He frowns, finally takes in Matt’s dishevelled hair, his untucked shirt, the way his glasses are perched jauntily in his hair. “Are you drunk?”


Yes,” Matt tells him happily, before swaying forward to lean against Foggy’s shoulder. “You’re warm.”


“Come on, you should sit down.” Foggy helps Matt over to his couch, then goes to the sink and fills a glass for Matt.


Matt gulps the water down, then reaches out, finds Foggy’s wrist with unerring aim and tugs him down onto the couch besides him.


Foggy feels his eyebrows climb higher on his forehead. “Matt, I am raising, like, both my eyebrows at you right now.”


“Don’t care,” Matt says, before slumping sideways to rest his head on Foggy’s shoulder.


They sit in companionable silence for a while, and Foggy must have dozed off because he wakes up to find Matt sitting in his lap, mouth pressed to the soft spot just under Foggy’s ear.


“Uh, Matt?” Foggy squeaks.


“Mm?” Matt replies, and oh dear God, is that Matt’s tongue he can feel on his neck?


“What – what are you doing,” Foggy asks, throwing the question like a shield between them.


Matt pauses, sits back on his haunches and frowns vaguely in Foggy’s direction. “Kissing your neck.”


“Okay, let me rephrase,” says Foggy, pinching the bridge of his nose and praying to the boner gods for strength, “Why are you kissing my neck?”


Matt tilts his head to the side, and the resemblance to a confused puppy is uncanny. “It’s our anniversary,” he says, like that explains everything, and tries to re-attach his mouth to Foggy’s neck.


“Whoa, hey,” says Foggy, stopping Matt with a hand on his chest. Matt makes a wounded noise that makes Foggy feel like an utter asshole. It’s not fair. It’s those eyes. And those pouty lips. “What anniversary is this, again?”


Our anniversary,” Matt repeats, fisting a hand in the collar of Foggy’s shirt, like he thinks inflection is going to make Foggy magically understand what’s going on in that stupid head of his.


“Matt, I don’t –”


Matt huffs impatiently. “The fourth of July, Foggy. That’s what you told Jack – hic – Jackson, remember?”


It takes Foggy entirely too long to understand, and when he does, his eyes widen and all he can manage is a startled, “Oh.”


“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” Matt says, the corner of his mouth curled up in fond grin. “We should totally, like, celebrate.”


“You’re drunk, Matt,” Foggy says quietly, gently extricating himself from under Matt. “C’mon, you should get some sleep.”


“Are you taking me to bed?” Matt pipes up hopefully, letting Foggy tug him down his hallway, towards Foggy’s bedroom, and Foggy double-takes so hard he ends up walking into the doorframe.


“Yeah, I guess you could say that,” Foggy says eventually, just because he can, and because Matt probably won’t remember a thing in the morning.


He loans Matt a pair of sweatpants and a shirt, both of which are too small on him. (Foggy may or may not spend a small eternity admiring the line of Matt’s back and shoulders as he changes, because fuck if his Daredevilling isn’t good for some things, at least.)


Then he gets Matt under the covers and, after only a slight moment’s hesitation, slides into bed after him.



Matt wakes to Foggy’s arm slung over his chest, their legs tangled together under the covers, and a pounding in his head that promises a spectacular hangover.


He lies motionless, partly because he doesn’t want to wake Foggy, and partly because his body is protesting against any and all kinds of actions that require movement.


So Matt inches closer, until he and Foggy are sharing the same pillow. He matches his breathing to the steady rise and fall of Foggy’s chest, and lets himself imagine what it would be like, waking up next to Foggy every day for the rest of his life.


When Foggy wakes up, Matt decides to do the brave thing and keeps his eyes open. Foggy sucks in a sharp breath and Matt listens as his heart starts pounding in – excitement? fear? – he can’t tell for sure.


“Morning,” he says, hoarse and cautious.


“I – morning.” Foggy sounds like he’s one second away from a panic attack, and his heart rate’s still not let up. Matt’s starting to worry.


He goes for the safer way out. “Sorry about last night.”

Foggy shifts, and Matt is made acutely aware of the way they’re still pressed together, chest to hip to legs. “Don’t worry about it,” says Foggy, shrugging with the shoulder he’s not lying on, “We all get drunk. It happens.”


“No, I’m – what I said. About, about July fourth and – and Jackson.” Matt’s ears are burning even as he forces the words out, because he’s scared, he’s fucking terrified, that they’ve reached the point where Foggy finds out how Matt really feels, and he’ll leave, and Matt will be left feeling more alone than ever. “I shouldn’t have, and I just – forget about it, okay? Forget I said anything.”


“Maybe I don’t want to,” Foggy says slowly, and Matt blinks, sure he’s misheard.


“What?” he croaks out, hating himself for the hope blossoming in his chest, for the way his heartbeat picks up.


“You said, last night, that it was our anniversary,” Foggy says, voice cracking on the last word. “Why did you say that?”

“I –” Matt licks his lips, stalling for time. He decides to throw caution to the wind. “I guess, because I really wanted it to be true.”


In the silence that follows, Matt focuses on listening to the rapid rhythm of Foggy’s heart hammering in his chest. He braces himself for Foggy’s dismissal, for his get out of my house, because nobody wants a best friend who’s hopelessly in love with you.


“You’re in love with me?” Foggy says, cheeks flushed and breathless.


And now Matt really wants to curl up in a corner somewhere and die of humiliation, because apparently he’d said that last part of his inner monologue out loud.


“Um, I’m –” is all Matt gets out before Foggy surges forward to press his lips against Matt’s. He makes a surprised noise that Foggy swallows, and practically melts against the length of Foggy’s body, pressing impossibly closer, because any part of him that isn’t touching Foggy needs to be rectified right the fuck now.


That’s the last time either of them say anything for a long time.



After, when Matt’s proven that his chemical-enhanced body comes with the perk of having superhuman stamina, and Foggy’s body is sore in places he didn’t know could be sore, the two of them lie side by side amidst rumpled sheets, panting.


“That was awesome,” Foggy says emphatically, once he gets his breath back. He reaches out a hand, pats Matt on his beautifully sculpted abs.


Matt snorts, but he’s grinning like a loon, and his eyes are brighter than Foggy’s seen them in a long time. “Speak for yourself.”


“Excuse me, Mr. Permanent Boner.” Foggy gestures at said appendage. “I’m pointing at your dick, by the way. Which is still by some miracle hard.”


Matt rolls his eyes, bats Foggy’s hand away. “I did tell you I could last longer.”


Foggy gasps in mock outrage. “How dare you,” he waggles an accusing finger at Matt, “We came at the same time!”


Matt raises an unimpressed eyebrow at him. “I’m not sure I remember,” he says slowly, drawing the words out, before flashing Foggy a wicked grin. “Maybe we should try again. You know, jog our memory.”


“You have the best ideas,” says Foggy, and leans over to kiss the smirk off Matt’s lips.



4th of July, a year later


It takes Foggy at least five minutes of intense doorbell-ringing before Matt answers the door.


“Foggy, it’s 2 in the morning,” Matt says in a tone that suggests murder, standing with messy hair and a crumpled shirt in his doorway. Foggy’s never seen anything more endearing in his life.


“Yep, I’m aware of that,” says Foggy, reaching out and snagging Matt’s wrist. “Come on, I’ve got something I wanna show you.”


Foggy leads a grumbling Matt up the fire escape, then up onto the rooftop.


“Here,” Foggy says, thrusting a large cardboard box into Matt’s arms. Matt regards it with suspicion, takes a cautious sniff, then promptly tears into the box when he realizes what it is.


“Foggy,” Matt laughs, once he’s got the box open, and the smell of chocolate is wrapped around them, “Where the hell did you find a lava cake this big?”

“I – uh,” Foggy shuffles his feet, like he’s embarrassed to admit it. “I made it. With some help from Betty Crocker.”


When the only thing Matt does is to keep staring at him like an idiot, Foggy sheepishly amends, “Okay, so maybe Karen helped me with the mixing bit. And the baking bit. You should light it up.”


Foggy thrusts a lighter at him, and it’s only then that Matt realizes the faint smell underneath all the chocolate is sulphur, and that there’s a sparkler sitting on top of the cake.


“Romantic,” Matt teases, grinning, but he lights the thing up. He listens to the sparkler burning, fancies he can make out it out as flashes of white against the red he sees.


He turns to Foggy, a thank you on his lips that dies because Foggy’s dropped down to one knee.


“Matthew Michael Murdock,” Foggy says, seemingly unaware that Matt’s just died and gone to heaven. “Will you –”


Yes, yes, of course,” Matt says, hauling Foggy up by a hand in the collar of his shirt so he can get to Foggy’s lips.


Foggy laughs delightedly against his mouth, and Matt feels the tremour go through his own body. “You didn’t let me finish. I could’ve been asking you to do my laundry for the rest of your life.”


Matt hums, mouth occupied with kissing a trail down Foggy’s jaw and neck. “I’d still say yes.”


Foggy pulls Matt away from his neck so he can kiss his mouth (those lips. Foggy could write sonnets about them). A few blocks down from them, there’s the sound of a couple firecrackers going off, and of some kids shrieking in delight.


When they finally part for air, Matt waggles his eyebrows at Foggy in what he evidently thinks is a significant way. “I told you our love was explosive.”


And Foggy groans, because – “That’s not even funny,” he tells Matt, who’s too busy laughing to reply, so Foggy shuts him up with his mouth.


Just because he can.