“Two options, Matt. We do it right here with a bucket and sponge, or we do it in the bathtub, the way God intended.”
Foggy is a lot more definite with him these days. A lot less prone to taking shit. It's fair. Still.
“And door number three?”
“Ah, that's where I chase you around my apartment with a washcloth, and we get dirt and water and blood everywhere.” Foggy pauses, breath gusting in, gusting out. “Door number three is everybody's least favorite door, buddy. Let's skip it.”
It's the layer of softness underneath the steel that gets to Matt. It always will. He heaves himself up to a sitting position on Foggy’s sofa, and the world spins, rights itself, more or less. His feet know where the floor is. His spine finds the back of the couch. His head finds it too - no, now it’s flopped forward, chin to chest - it’s heavy, so heavy, he wonders how many blows he took to the head. Two? Three? He’d had more important things to count. Weapons. Heartbeats.
“Okay. Okay, the options are narrowing,” Foggy says, “because it turns out I’m not cool with letting you out of my sight long enough to go get a sponge. Sorry. On your feet.”
Foggy’s grip on his elbow is firm, and once Matt’s fully vertical it shifts into an arm around his waist, low enough to avoid the worst of the bruising blossoming on his back. There’d been just the one kick there, he’s fairly sure. They do more shuffling than walking, because Matt’s discovering his feet are heavy too, and his legs, and his everything. It’s like someone poured molten lead into his bloodstream, and now that the fight’s over it’s cooling by degrees, and if he doesn’t make it to Foggy’s bath in time he’ll solidify, and this is where he’ll be. Frozen. A gargoyle in a Hell’s Kitchen walk-up, forever and ever amen.
“Matt. Matt. Are you saying somebody poisoned you?”
No. Was he talking out loud? He tries to explain about the lead again, properly this time, but it’s creeping up to his jaw and he’s really too tired to finish. And Foggy’s bedroom is just over there. He feels the air currents drifting through the door, he knows what that means.
“Absolutely not.” That arm around his waist turns into two arms, turns into a cage. “You are not not getting anywhere near my sheets as disgusting as you are right now.”
He can smell the night-sweat trapped in Foggy's sheets from here. The dust mites. The traces of Foggy's deodorant, shampoo, and soap, bound up in the weave of dyed cotton. He knows Foggy had a particularly good dream two nights ago, give or take, and that he'd thought his pajama pants had caught all the come, but he'd been wrong by a drop or two.
There's nowhere Matt would rather be than that bed. His head in the hollow of Foggy's scratchy pillow, his heavy limbs laid out on his mattress. He makes a break for it.
"What did I just say -”
Before he knows it, Matt's been manhandled and deposited on the lid of Foggy's closed toilet seat. He laughs, and it echoes off tile. "Like those sheets are clean."
“Hey, give me my illusions, man.” Foggy’s clothes shift and crinkle; his voice comes from closer to the floor. He’s kneeling in front of Matt. “I know you don't know what you look like right now, but trust me on this, okay?”
Matt knows what he feels like. The layer of grime itching over every inch of his exposed skin, dirt and grease and shavings from splintered floorboards. The dried blood - his - matting the hair near his temple and cracking over the cut high on his shoulder. The blood that isn’t his smeared along his throat from where he’d pinned the one that struggled the most against his body.
Foggy moves away, the pipes gurgle, and water rushes into the tub, the sound ricocheting off ceramic and battering at Matt like he’s caught in a storm.
He doesn't realize he's swaying where he sits, upper body loose and unmoored, equilibrium shot to hell, until a hand catches his shoulder and he leans into that anchor. Foggy's heartbeat is tripping in his chest, either because of the picture Matt makes, or because of whatever he's about to say. Or both. He's wetting his lips, little raindrops in a hurricane.
“Clothes on or off? Your call.”
Calling his boxer-briefs - all he’d been left in after taking off the suit - “clothes” is a polite stretch on Foggy’s part. “Why - why would I take a bath in my underwear?”
“Because I’m not leaving you to drown in a puddle of your own filth alone?”
Foggy’s pulse is a drumbeat rolling through the storm, pounding out everything he wants and hopes and fears. The fear, now, that’s wise, because more than anything this little nod to Matt’s dignity brings home just how much he’s giving up in the course of these events. He gets to his feet, and Foggy scrambles to follow. There are an easy four seconds where Foggy’s off his guard. Matt spends them with every muscle in his body poised and screaming to bolt.
But he lets them pass, and a few more besides. Foggy’s breath has hitched in his throat, no air coming in, none going out. Not until Matt finally hooks a finger over the elastic of his underwear and pulls them down his thighs.
Foggy’s sigh is a gust that hits him square in the chest. Foggy's heartbeat slams against Matt’s ears.
Four steps from Foggy’s toilet to his bathroom counter. Matt knows them by rote. He decides against taking them, though, not until the water’s switched off and he’s got his sound perception fully back on his side. Maybe he’s frowning over at the tub, or maybe he’s swaying on his feet - scratch that, he knows he’s swaying, so he goes ahead and stumble-steps to his left until he feels cool Formica pressed against his bare hip - but Foggy says, “That’s gotta be full enough,” and the rush of water stops.
“Okay, I’m holding out my hands, and I’m doing it because that molten lead thing’s still going on for you, isn’t it, Matt?” He must make a noise in the affirmative, because Foggy's fingers nudge helpfully against his wrist, and Matt latches on. "There. Good. That’s good. Left hand now… okay, leaning into me, stepping in the tub… Good. Good.”
The naked relief in Foggy’s voice makes him want to push, makes him want to fight. It hits Matt in that place where he’s been hardwired differently from other people and whispers, You gave in. You gave up.
He concentrates on the water sloshing gently against his calves, warm and - perfect, really, Foggy made it perfect. Matt sinks down.
It had played no part in his decision-making, but intellectually, Matt had known a bath would be kind to his sore muscles and aching limbs. Still, he doesn’t expect the little sigh that escapes him, or how nice it feels to be cradled by warmth and comfort. He loses a few minutes to that feeling, maybe, because when Foggy speaks, his voice comes from very close by. He’s perched on the edge of the tub, and Matt hadn’t even heard him shift. “I”m going to wash this cut you say doesn’t need stitches,” Foggy says quietly. “Hold still.”
“Doesn’t,” Matt gets out. He leans forward, pressing his cheek against his knee.
“Yes, so-called expert, I’m bowing to you,” Foggy says. His tone and the beat of his heart add, And I don’t like it.
But surely Foggy can tell for himself that it’s the truth. The blood’s slowed to a crawl, and even when Foggy dips a washcloth into the bath and dabs around the edges of the wound, only a small amount springs up to the surface of Matt’s skin. He can feel it prickling and slowly drying there, a few degrees cooler than the drops of bathwater trailing down his back.
The water is wonderful. Matt sighs. It's kind to his bruises, and he doesn't feel in danger of solidifying anymore; the lead is sloshing around inside his body, and the longer that goes on, the more he’s dissolving, he’s floating away.
“Hey. Hey, no, get your chin up out of the water, you’re not going to drown with me sitting here either.”
Matt inches himself up till his head’s above the waterline, neck resting against the wall of the tub. Had Foggy finished cleaning his back, or had Matt just slipped down into the water and finished the job for him? He really is losing time. He should care about that. The mind controls the body -
Foggy’s moved on to the cut at his temple, one big hand cupped around Matt’s skull, the other dabbing the washcloth oh-so-carefully at his hairline. "You've got this," Matt murmurs, exhaling. Meaning it. His blood and bone, safe in Foggy's hands.
“Thanks for the pep talk,” Foggy says, dry. But there’s no harshness to it; Matt’s still surrounded by soothing things, the water Foggy drew for him, Foggy’s voice, Foggy’s hands. How can Foggy be so gentle when he must hate everything he's doing, everything he's seeing? The work of his hands and the evidence of his eyes must be fuel for an anger that burns down deep. Matt knows too much about fire to think this one will ever completely go out.
But they’re lawyers, of course, and in their line of work evidence is a gift. One that Matt’s delivered to Foggy, pure and untampered, a counselor’s dream. No cover-ups, no obfuscations. No bandages, no stories. Just the text of his bare skin for Foggy to read and interpret.
Speaking of bare skin -
Matt’s is weak. It has been for too long. It likes gentleness, it likes care, and it hums when it’s treated well, every microscopic cell happy and content. And Matt’s blood, well - it’s always been quick to stir. To thrill. To meet the call of another’s.
Foggy's has been calling for years.
Sometimes it's a sweet whisper, slipped into the quiet of an ordinary day. At the office it threads into conversations over legal briefs and coffee cups, and down at the corner, it says, The two of us against the street. And Foggy must like the way the morning sun hits the slant of Matt’s jaw - or the curve of his cheek - or the crinkles at the far corners of his eyes, just beyond his glasses - he doesn’t know exactly, but a simple change from the coolness of shadow to the heat of light on his face can make Foggy’s blood speak.
Matt never lets himself expect it. Never takes it for granted.
Even when what he hears is a shout.
Matt knows that visual images are things that matter to other people, and that the sight of him now, naked and wet, loose-limbed and pliant, is mattering to Foggy. As the washcloth moves away from Matt’s injuries, scrubbing lightly along his throat and upper chest, Foggy’s breath comes more and more quickly; he’s trying to come to a decision. He thinks he should stop. He doesn’t want to stop.
The sigh that escapes Matt is long and slow and only the slightest bit calculated. Because it feels good, what Foggy’s doing: the warm water, the gentle motion, the soft pressure of Foggy’s broad hand, and he’s absolutely on the side of the part of Foggy that wants to continue.
There’s a little hitch in the motion, and then the trajectory continues. Down, over his ribs, down.
Matt’s blood rushes happily along in the same direction. Just below the water, tucked against his thigh, his dick is swelling, fattening; it won’t be below the surface for long, it’s rising in jerky twitches, and he can feel the way the water swirls gently in response. How it’s cooler over the head of his cock as it gets closer to the surface. He's almost broken free.
Of course Foggy can see what's happening. Of course he knows. There aren't any bubbles drifting around in this bath with Matt, clinging to his skin, soft and fluffy and flimsily concealing. But there’s still a shred of plausible deniability for them both until the moment his dick brushes Foggy’s hand -
The washcloth dips into the water again, and Foggy’s broad hand spans Matt’s knee.
Time. Foggy’s giving them both time.
"You're good at this," Matt says. It's important to sound alert, awake, and in complete possession of his faculties, and he’s pretty sure he succeeds. It's getting truer by the minute, anyway, with his blood pumping and his dick arcing up high and the wild thumpthumpthump of Foggy's heartbeat battering his ears. Matt's never been able to sleep through a storm. "Ever worked at a massage parlor? Or a spa? Or as a candy striper?”
"The depths of my resume are none of your concern, Murdock. But I’ll take that compliment, because I like compliments.” Foggy’s hand coasts down Matt’s thigh. The breadth and weight of his hand feel so good that Matt smiles. It’s like he's gotten something right and earned a reward.
But he’s not sure Foggy would care for that thought, so he keeps it sealed behind his lips. Which feels like getting something else right, so maybe that's why his legs decide to fall open a little wider of their own accord.
Foggy’s hand freezes. His throat works over and over, a series of tiny convulsive clicks. “All right, yeah. Okay. I'm just going to talk to the elephant now. Since it’s totally there! And I’m getting the idea that it doesn't want to be ignored. So. Elephant. Do you or do you not want to be touched?”
Matt huffs a laugh. “Think there are two elephants in this room, Foggy.”
The sigh Foggy lets loose is expressive. It says, Please don't tell me exactly how much you know about my boner. "Yeah, maybe, but only one I need to cross-examine. And give a competency hearing to.”
“I'm fit to consent,” Matt says. “So are you, now.”
“Well, yes. I'm not the one bleeding from a head wou - oh. Not what you meant.”
“You know the best and worst of me now,” Matt says quietly. His fingertips flutter beneath the water, making minute waves. “I wouldn't -” I wouldn't have let you see this before. “You can make an informed decision.”
That's safe in Foggy’s hands, too. Matt breathes, slow and steady, and waits.
Foggy says, “I think I'm gonna need a little more information, actually.” There's a pause. Not because Foggy is deciding what to say next; no, it's entirely for effect, the rhythm of Foggy’s rhetoric an old familiar song to Matt, inside of a courtroom or out. “Let's begin with the question you dodged. Do you or do you not want to be touched?”
It's surprisingly easy to answer; he parts his lips, and the word falls out. “Yes.”
“Says the party with a head wound and a clear case of exhaustion, after being maneuvered into a compromising situation by the second party. Matt. If this is just you being hard and too tired to do anything about it for yourself, consider yourself stuck with the blue balls, my friend.”
Exhaustion crumbles walls. That's another thought Matt keeps sealed away. There's only one other thing to say; it has the advantage of being perfectly true. It has the disadvantage of sounding like a line. “I always want you to touch me.”
Foggy’s heart stutters. His palm still weighs heavy on Matt’s thigh, has this entire time, but Matt reads nothing into that. It can mean anything. Foggy’s choice.
It’s definitely keeping Matt hard.
“You’ve got to remember,” Foggy finally says. “Everything I thought I knew about what you looked like or sounded like when you were telling the truth has gotten all smashed up into what I know you can look like or sound like when you’re lying. So you’re asking me to take a lot on faith, here. And I don’t have the kind of experience you do with that.”
“Any -” Matt rubs his lips together. “Anyone can learn. It all starts with taking a single step.”
“See, I can’t tell if you’re trying to get me religion, or take me to the church of touching your dick.”
“I’ve heard of multitasking.”
From the puff of air that escapes Foggy, Matt’s pretty sure he’s cracking a grin. He lets one of his own escape. It feels good. He wants to share it, so he tips his head, angling his face towards Foggy; he feels his smile grow wider and softer when Foggy grumbles, “Ah, hell, how am I supposed to respond rationally to that? Put it away, will you,” and then, “Okay, bottom line. I'm not touching anything like an elephant before I kiss you. No, lemme rephrase that. I'm not touching anything unless you want me to kiss you.”
“Oh, that's,” Matt says, voice suddenly shaky, “that's not a problem,” and he stretches up, bracing one hand on the wall of the tub.
His aim’s a little off, but not by much; he lands at the far corner of Foggy's mouth and adjusts at once, shifting, finding the sweet center and giving himself up to the flood.
Because Matt's gone. There are only Foggy’s lips, the softness and the shape, the curves Matt felt once with his fingers a long, long time ago, and a time or two since in dreams. There’s the heat of Foggy’s mouth. The heavy press of his tongue. No air, no breath. Matt had thought, when he could still think, that they might take it slow. Drowning is never slow.
“Right,” Foggy whispers when they finally part, while Matt's still searching for breath. “You make a convincing argument - No," he adds, left hand gripping Matt's shoulder. Matt's been levering himself up higher, chasing Foggy’s mouth. “I'm not having you slip and crack your head on the tub! We can add that to the list of things that aren't happening.”
All Matt knows is that he needs more of Foggy; he’s the life raft as well as the flood. “Get in here,” he says, low. It’s not a question.
Foggy snorts, but it doesn’t mask the uptick in his pulse triggered by Matt’s voice. “I admire your optimism, I do, but we are two grown men, heavy emphasis on grown, and I think you’re asking way more of this dinky little tub than it’s prepared to handle.” His hand pats the ceramic. “No offense, tub. You’ve been there for me.”
“If you want me to leave you two alone,” Matt begins, but finds himself shushed soundly.
“How about this,” Foggy says. His palm slips a little lower on Matt’s thigh, just the barest inch, and Matt’s breath catches in his throat. “You lean back, get comfy, and let me finish what I started.”
Matt’s cock gives a happy twitch. He leans back, legs spreading wide, and Foggy dips the washcloth in the water between his thighs, creating softly swirling eddies that lap at Matt’s balls.
Matt sighs, drawn-out and deep.
The washcloth resettles at Matt’s knee, and Foggy eases it down, sending warm rivulets of bathwater running down Matt’s inner thigh in advance of the slow, dragging pressure of his hand. The cotton scratches at Matt’s short hairs, making them bristle in the cool air that follows in the cloth’s wake. When Foggy’s hand finally, finally reaches the crease of his thigh, Matt’s hips tilt up, his body’s so eager to meet it. Two of Foggy’s fingertips brush lightly against his balls, and Matt nearly chokes on his tongue.
Thank Christ, thank Christ for the roughness of the washcloth’s weave. Those two gentle points of pressure on his sac, the firmness of Foggy’s wrist nudging against the base of his cock… if it weren’t for that edge of discomfort from the cotton, Matt might have lost it already.
And God, Foggy’s right here. All he’d have to do is inch his hand over, cup that wide, sturdy palm over Matt’s cock, and Matt -
“Jesus,” Foggy says. “You’re leaking already.”
“I know.” It comes out hoarse and broken. He’s hyperaware of the warmth pulsing lightly out through the slit in his dick, passing slickly over nerve endings, spreading low on his stomach. Of Foggy’s attention, of the sudden stillness of his breath and body as his eyes show him something of what Matt feels.
Foggy’s thumb lands gently on his slit, and Matt’s body jerks, going as rigid and tight as if he’d made contact with a live wire. One hand hits the water with a slap, the other knocks hard against the edge of the tub, and Matt manages to hold on, chest heaving, mouth going slack.
“Jesus,” Foggy says again, and his touch is gone. Matt’s cock lifts, seeking it out; or maybe it’s just throbbing in harmony with Foggy’s, because he can hear every rhythmic pulse of blood beneath Foggy’s skin, and the soft rustle of cotton as his dick moves inside his underwear.
“Again,” Matt says. “Go on - go on,” he adds, when Foggy hesitates. He can take it, he’s ready, and this time his ears are totally in the game - there, there it is, that first hot hard rush of Foggy’s blood, Foggy’s body’s response to the way Matt bows to his touch.
Ready or not, with that little press of his thumb, Foggy owns him.
“Okay,” Foggy says a moment later, his hand back on Matt’s knee, his breathing unsteady, if not quite as unsteady as Matt’s. “Okay, idea. How about I introduce you to the wonderful world of edging?”
“Oh, I’ve - I’ve visited before,” Matt says. “But by all means, feel free to give me the guided tour.”
“Matt Murdock is an edger! I never guessed. Why did I never guess? Of course you would take denying yourself to the level of sexual sport.”
Matt lifts a shoulder. “Necessity, mostly. I’m, ah, I’m a little hair-trigger.”
“Yeah, noticed that,” Foggy breathes. It comes out warm and delighted, like this thing he's found about Matt - this thing he loves. He reaches down between Matt’s legs to lift the washcloth, and Matt shivers as the corner of it drags over the base of his cock and water sloshes over his balls. Then the cloth’s in position on his right knee, and Matt’s cock swells as it - and Foggy’s strong hand - begin the slow journey down.
He’s ready to feel Foggy’s fingertips on his balls again. His thumb at his slit. He is, he is. Matt’s breathing through it, steady, he’s got this, he won’t come -
The cloth drags over his cock, nubby and rough. And that’s all: no skin on skin. Matt hisses and twists his neck, biting at Foggy’s jaw in retaliation. “Oh my God, you vampire, point made!” Foggy says, and Matt nips at him again on principle before the cloth settles at his knee once more.
Deep breath. Ready.
Foggy puts his weight behind it this time, fingers digging in, kneading muscle as he works his way down Matt’s thigh. It’s so easy to get lost in the motion, to imagine Foggy’s fingers firmly working his dick, and Matt’s back arches up into the illusion. Foggy pulls air sharply into his lungs, but his pace doesn’t alter; when he finally makes it to Matt’s groin, Matt’s clutching the rim of the tub again, fingers bloodlessly tight.
That’s even before Foggy abandons the washcloth and runs the pads of his fingers up Matt’s cock, whisper-light.
“You know, you can shout next time. If you want.” Foggy’s managing to keep his voice detached, amused; it must be a struggle, the way his blood is racing. Matt can hear it pounding. Feel the tiny vibrations through each point of contact with his cock. “My neighbors can suck it.”
Matt has to find air before he can speak. It’s an effort. “Funny,” he finally manages. “That’s something I was thinking about doing. Later. In your bed.”
Foggy chokes on air. “Murdock,” he breathes, in the same delighted tone as before, and Matt smiles, basking in it. Maybe Foggy hadn’t thought past what was happening right now. Maybe he had, but assumed that, with his senses, Matt wouldn't be able to stand the taste or smell involved in giving head; or maybe he’d just figured accepting a handjob wasn't the same as being up for sucking a dick. All Matt knows is that he's surprised Foggy, and the thought that some of the buried pieces of himself are ones Foggy could be that happy to uncover - it’s good. It’s so good.
And so are Foggy’s hands. By the time Foggy’s made his way down Matt’s thigh again, Matt’s biting his lip, and his dick is lifting away from his stomach in helpless, futile jerks.
He's prepared for fingertips. He's not prepared for Foggy to make a fist around his cock.
Matt does, in fact, shout.
“Sorry, sorry, not trying to cause another head injury here -“ He’d thrashed back against the tub, too. Hard. “But you’re so damn hard, Matt, so flushed, I just had to….” Foggy gives him the barest squeeze, and Matt grits his teeth and pants.
“No, that hand stays there,” Matt says, because he feels Foggy's grip begin to loosen, and no. “You can - you can squeeze, or you can jack, or you can just, just fucking hold it exactly like that and see how long I can take it -” Matt doesn't know how much he's got left in him. They can find out together.
“Always a challenge with you,” Foggy says, but it's fond, and it's not like Matt can deny it. At most he could point out that Foggy’s the one who brought up edging in the first place, but stringing the words together would take more coherence than he thinks he has left. Foggy goes on, “Hope this won’t cramp your style or anything, but I gotta say. You know how when we go to Central Park in the fall and the leaves are just killing it and you're like, ‘I get it, Foggy, they're leaves,’ after the first twenty minutes but I can't stop describing them anyway?”
He knows. His blood is pounding in the ring of Foggy’s fingers and he's beyond words.
“Your dick is a wonder of nature right now, man. Stiff as an iron bar but curved like a sapling bending under its own weight -” Matt wants to laugh at this nonsense, but he really can't, especially not when Foggy’s fingers contract and he adds, low, “Good thing you've got me to hold you up.”
“And the color. Like I said, flushed, especially up at the head. Not… not pink, not red, not purple, exactly, I don't know… I don't know if you remember the color a peach can get, the parts of the flesh that are right up against the pit? Like that.”
Maybe. Maybe not. Hard to say. But Matt gets it; he doesn't need that particular visual. What Foggy’s talking about is blood, something he’ll probably remember when he's forgotten most everything else. Blood rising up under the skin - still, that visual isn’t important either. But sound. Feeling. Matt's blood is pulsing hard, every throb spiraling him higher, and Foggy’s is a beat driving beneath his every word.
“And when I think, okay, now, now that's as thick as he gets, there you go, plumping up even more. I'm looking and I can see you forcing my fingers wider. I tighten up,” Foggy demonstrates, “you push back.”
Of course Matt does. He swells against Foggy's fingers, and while he's breathing through it, Foggy tightens that ring just a little bit more.
He’s done. His body is beyond his control. Matt shudders as he comes, shoulders and hips jerking as he curls around Foggy's hand like he's riding out a punch. But he can let himself feel this, let the pleasure spread in waves throughout his body, let it feel good. Foggy would want him to.
Matt must collapse back against the tub when his dick stops pulsing; he's only vaguely aware of the chill of ceramic and the heaviness of his limbs before Foggy presses a kiss to the crown of his head, warm and sweetly grounding.
The washcloth dips into the water one last time. Foggy's so gentle as he lifts Matt's softening dick, cleaning it carefully, then moving on to scrub lightly at his stomach. Matt drifts, safe, still, in Foggy’s hands. Time passes, he's not sure how much, but eventually Foggy softly says, “Let's get you out of here before you ruin my hard work a second time.”
This is the kind of statement Matt is duty-bound to counter on the grounds of counsel having a direct hand in the referenced proceedings. He objects.
"Tell it to the judge," Foggy advises, knees creaking as he rises to his feet. Matt accepts Foggy's hands for support as he steps out of the bath, and shivers only for a moment before he finds himself bundled up in what he knows to be the softest, fluffiest towel Foggy owns. That’s all very well and good, but he needs more of Foggy.
Matt remedies that.
"I'm out of the tub now," he says, "no risk of cracking my head," and that's all the warning Matt considers necessary before pressing up into Foggy’s soft strength and stealing his second ever taste of Foggy's lips.
Bottom one first, pinned nearly between his own, because Matt wants Foggy to start getting used to what that feels like. Being held. Smooth, soft, tasting of synthetic coconut from the lip balm Foggy favors, it's perfect, it's Foggy, and Matt pushes gently in, then pulls slowly back, dragging Foggy's lower lip with him.
A groan rises from Foggy’s throat that echoes in Matt’s bones. It's Matt’s cue to perform that particular move again, so he does, more slowly this time, sliding a palm up to cradle Foggy’s head. Foggy's hands flex on Matt's shoulders, where they're starting to lose their grip on the towel, and he hunches forward in the universal posture of a man whose erection has just gotten real.
"What do you think," Matt murmurs against Foggy's lips. "Do I pass inspection? Clean enough for your bed?"
"Dear God, Murdock.” Foggy's breath hitches, and his voice shakes. “I'll check behind your ears later. Let's go wreck some sheets."