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The Wrong Bed

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Matt honestly didn’t know how it happened.

Last night, he had most definitely gotten home after long hours patrolling, stopping three robberies and one assault, and collapsed in his bed. He was pretty sure of that, anyway. At least, he had been until he’d woken up to a man yelling, “The fuck!?” and Matt found himself on the floor boards instead of the bed.

“What are you doing in my apartment?” Matt asked.

The man, who was holding something large and dense, maybe a pan, said, “Dude, this is my apartment, and you’re a scary masked man sleeping in my bed! The cops are on their way, whoever the hell you are.”

The man’s heart sped up when he mentioned the cops. A lie. The rest? True. Shit.

“Sorry, I thought- I’ll just-” Matt scrambled for an explanation and took a step toward the window. The man hefted his pan.

“Oh no, you don’t. You’re going to explain what the hell you were doing sleeping in my bed.”

“You weren’t in it.” Matt knew it was a stupid thing to say only a second after he said it. It caught the man off guard, though. He let his pan drop some as he stared at Matt. And, right, Matt was still wearing his costume, wasn’t he.

“I had a late night at the office,” the man said. His heartbeat was steady; his voice was not. “But, wait a second, that doesn’t mean you can break into people’s homes!”

“Look,” Matt said, holding his hands up in front of him in a show of peace, “would it help that it was an honest to God mistake? I swear. As a Catholic, I take that very seriously.”

The man took a long time to reply. At last, he let his arms drop so his pan was perpendicular to the floor and no longer a weapon. “How does that even work?” The man was bewildered. Matt was, too, to be fair. He didn’t have an answer for the man.

The man kept talking. “Okay, I’ll assume for a second that you’re telling the truth. First off, uh, you had to break in, since you clearly don’t have a key. Which means you break into your own place regularly, which, man, if you do, you need help. Second, how the hell do you not realize it’s not your apartment once you’re inside?”

“I was really tired,” Matt offered with a shrug, his hands still up in front of him.

“Okay, but you could also be a thief who fell asleep on the job - which, really, seems just as unlikely as your first story - which means that you’re really crap at this job, and you need a new line of work. But also you need to go to jail for breaking and entering and attempted robbery. So I can’t just let you go.”

“Or I could be a sex-o-gram sent by your company for a job well done last night?”

Matt didn’t know why he said that. It was even stupider than, “You weren’t in it.” If he’d wanted the man to think that he was an awful burglar, he’d done just that.

The man snorted on a stifled laugh, however. “Uh, I don’t think they’d be doing that anytime soon. Seeing as I quit last night. This morning. Whichever.”

“Ah,” Matt said. “Sorry. Or, you know, congratulations. Depending.”

“Bit of both.” The man hadn’t let go of the pan, but he was only holding it with one hand now, by his side. He was no longer going to hit Matt. This was progress.

“I’m really sorry,” Matt said. “I do break into my own place, through the window. It’s, uh, people don’t notice me that way.”

“Wait, so you’re, like, an amateur superhero?”

Matt nodded. “I suppose you could say that?”

The man openly laughed then. “Man, you really messed up this time.”

Matt couldn’t disagree. “So, can I go? Again, I’m sorry about all this. I promise it won’t happen again.”

“I still don’t know for sure that you’re not a robber,” the man said. “But today’s a whole new start for me, full of risks and adventure, so why not? I’ll let you go if you give me your name.”

“I can’t-”

“Hey, it’s cool, first is fine. There are 8 million people in this city. I won’t be able to look you up.”

Matt considered for a moment. The man was no longer threatening him, the police were not on their way, and from the sounds outside, Matt was still several blocks from his place. He must have been very tired last night.

A name couldn’t hurt.

“Matt,” he said at last.

“Foggy,” the man said. “That’s me. Nice to meet you, Matt. Be more careful next time. Not everyone would let strange men sleep in their bed when they’re not around.”


Matt moved slowly toward the window. Foggy didn’t stop him. As Matt slipped out, Foggy called out, “And hey, if you really are a sex-o-gram, feel free to drop by again!”

Matt stifled his own laughter.

A month after the incident (which Matt, thankfully, didn’t repeat), he found himself late for a meeting with someone who was to be co-counsel for a joint defence case. He walked in with apologies. “Matt Murdock. Sorry about being late.”

“No problem! I’m glad you could find the place. I know it’s not great, but it was the only place I could find on such short notice,” Mr. Nelson said, and that was a voice Matt knew.

They worked for the next several months on the case. Matt liked Foggy a lot; he was optimistic, funny, and a damn good lawyer. He also, thankfully, didn’t suspect Matt in the slightest.

Matt thought he didn’t, at least, until, over celebratory drinks for a not guilty verdict, Foggy said, “You don’t moonlight as a sex-o-gram, do you?”

Matt honestly didn’t know how Foggy knew.