Actions

Work Header

Favorite Mistake

Work Text:

Foggy is a deep sleeper and it takes a lot to drag him out of it. He wakes bleary and dazed, not entirely sure why he's awake until there's a thump from the living room of his apartment.

His first thought is Matt. Matt's in trouble.

And his second thought is that Matt has made a lot of enemies, and some of those enemies could conceivably have learned who Daredevil is, and therefore who Daredevil's best friend is. Actually, Nelson & Murdock probably has some enemies of their own by now. Not to mention ordinary, run-of-the-mill burglars.

He fumbles for his phone on the nightstand, intending to first text Matt, and if it isn't Matt, to call 911. However, he's still only half awake, which is why instead of picking up the phone, he swats it with a clumsy hand and sends it sailing to the floor and skittering into some dark corner of the room.

"Shit," Foggy says aloud, and then claps his hand over his mouth.

Now he hears the sound of running water in the kitchen. A burglar who wants a drink of water? That improves the chances of it being Matt, but when Foggy cautiously sits up, there's a faint glow coming through his half-open bedroom door. Matt wouldn't turn the lights on. Back to Option B: for Burglar.

He fumbles his way out of bed and looks for the phone for a minute before realizing he's never going to find it in the dark, and if he turns on a light, the burglar, mob assassin, or whatever it is will know he's here and awake.

Maybe he could hide in the closet until they leave.

No, he tells himself firmly. Your best buddy goes out every night and beats up guys with guns, and he's BLIND. The least you can do is get rid of a burglar on your own.

Foggy gropes around for something to use as a weapon. He stumbles over a tennis racket, a relic of one of his brief and ill-advised attempts to get in shape, now propped against the bedroom wall for some reason and, apparently, being used to drape socks on. He shakes the socks off and picks it up. It seems very flimsy for anti-burglar protection. He trips over one of his dress shoes and picks that up too.

Thus armed, Foggy picks his way carefully to the bedroom door, flattens himself against the wall like an FBI agent about to stage a raid, psychs himself up with a few deep breaths, then throws himself through the door.

"Freeze!" he snaps, squinting against the glare of the living room lamp, blinding to his night-adapted eyes. All he can make out is a blur turning around from the counter of the attached open-plan kitchen. "Don't move! The police are on their way, and I'm not afraid to use this -- Marci?"

"Foggy," Marci says. She has a glass of water in one hand, and she's dressed to kill in an emerald-green, off-the-shoulder number. "What are you doing?"

"Defending myself," Foggy retorts defiantly. He drops the shoe and holds the tennis racket in front of himself protectively, having become aware that he's wearing nothing but a T-shirt and boxers. On the other hand, it's nothing she hasn't seen before. "What are you doing? Here, I mean. Doing here. How did you get in? Do you realize it's two a.m.?"

"I still have your key," Marci says. "I never gave it back."

Great. Apparently he's as bad at breaking up with women as he is at catching their eye in the first place. "Yes, but why are you here now?"

"Because ..." she says. "Because your apartment was close, and I couldn't think where else to go."

And now he starts taking in more of the details he'd missed at first: the way her stylish updo is coming down, and her mascara is tracked down her cheeks like she's been crying, and one of her nylons has fallen down and she hasn't bothered to pull it up again.

"Marci!" He drops the tennis racket and crosses the room in a hurry. "What -- did someone hurt you? They won't get away with that! I've knocked out goons, you know. I'm actually kind of good at it. Well, I did it once. And I was lying about calling the police, because I'm not sure where my phone is, but if I can borrow your phone, we can totally call --"

She stops the flow of words by touching his mouth. "It's okay, Foggy. I'm not hurt -- well, not like you're thinking. You don't need to call anyone."

She's not crying, at least, but she still doesn't look okay by a long shot. "Do you want to sit down?"

"I think I'd like that," she says, with a shaky laugh.

Foggy leads her to the couch. She smells like expensive perfume and alcohol. She's not falling-down drunk, but she's definitely had a few. When he sits her gently down on the couch, she goes willingly, which is very un-Marci-like of her.

She's still holding the now-empty water glass, like she doesn't know where to put it. "Would you like some more water?" he asks. She nods.

By the time he brings her the glass back, she's pulled herself together somewhat. He didn't realize how much she'd resembled the old Marci, the one he knew in college, until that girl was tucked up once again behind the mature Marci's armor. He misses it as soon as he recognizes it's gone.

He hands her the glass and she takes it with a slight brush of her fingers over his. It's reflexive, like she hardly knows she's doing it. Her hands are very cold and shaking a little.

Marci is, has always been, his favorite mistake. It's not really a matter of not being able to walk away, so much as it's nice knowing someone he can call up for a night of hot, no-strings-attached sex. Well, only a few strings attached. Old strings. Frayed strings. But ... still there. For both of them, it seems, because she's here at two a.m. when she could have called a cab and gone anywhere.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

She starts to nod, then shakes her head, then sighs. "It's not even a good story. It's just a stupid, drunk story. I went on a blind date. We both had a few. He -- it's just -- he turned out to be a jerk, and it ended badly. Nothing happened," she adds, at whatever she's seeing on his face. "Not for lack of trying on his part, but ... nothing, really."

"I hope you kicked the shit out of him," Foggy says, with feeling.

This gets a smile out of her -- small, but genuine. "Trust me, he'll be patching stiletto heel holes for awhile."

"Good."

Her smile falls away, and she drops her gaze to her hands, which are still trembling slightly on the water glass. "It shouldn't be getting to me this badly. I don't even remember coming here. It's like I was in a haze."

Foggy leans forward to take the half-empty glass, and curls his hands over her cold ones. "Look, Matt and I deal with crime victims all the time, okay? Everybody reacts like this when something bad happens, unless they have stone-cold nerves of steel, but most people don't. Heck, I'd be a lot more of a mess than you are right now. Trust me."

She heaves a sigh, and offers him a little smile.

"And if you want to press charges, or sue, I happen to know a couple of excellent lawyers."

"So do I," she says, a bit pointedly.

"Oh. Yes. Right."

"Ugh." Marci detaches her hands gently, and rubs her face. "Two a.m., you said?"

"Probably closer to three by now."

"God," she moans. "Morning is going to suck so, so badly. I could take a cab home, but I just want to crash. Foggy, do you mind if I sleep on your couch tonight? I'll be gone by the time you wake up."

"Forget the couch," he says firmly. "There's a perfectly good bed. Which you just slept in last week, if I remember right."

This time her sigh is small and sad. "Foggy, I don't want --"

"Sex? Great! Me neither. Because I have to be up at six-thirty, same as you. C'mon." He holds out a hand and helps her up. "You can wear one of my T-shirts. I'll be a perfect gentleman, I swear. Actually, I don't think I have much choice, since I'm gonna be asleep as soon as my head hits that pillow."

She manages to laugh a little.

Foggy stumbles back to the bed and falls into it. Marci is busy for a little while in the bathroom, and his eyes are closed when he hears her bare footsteps come into the bedroom. The other side of the bed dips; the covers twitch as she pulls them over her.

"Night," Foggy says softly.

"Oh! I thought you were asleep. Good night, Foggy." There's a little more rustling and readjusting of the bedcovers. Then he feels the dimpling in the mattress as she rolls towards him in the dark bedroom (is this what it's like to be Matt? an irrelevant part of his sleepy brain wonders) and her lips brush his cheek, gentle and soft in the dark.